True, Not Permitted
by Goggie
Summary: Malik/Altaïr. Sometimes the time it takes to arrive at your destination is what makes the achievement so much sweeter. The Assassins' story, from beginning to end.  Maltair, Altmal
1. PART ONE: Raw Fish

**Outskirts of Haifa – 1174 A.D.**

It was noon, the sun hanging high and hot over the marketplace. Even with the overbearing heat, the streets were over-crowded with people. The air was filled with the shouts of men directing work on the docks, merchants checking off lists of produce, and the usual bands of homeless wretches milling around begging for coin.

The smell of rotting fish and raw dyes pervaded the air.

A caravan was lifted off the ground, teetering and full of merchandise. It bumped and bustled over the uneven ground, exposing for a second two young boys hiding beneath a stall. They shrunk quickly back into the shadows, their eyes never leaving their target.

An obscenely fat man stood behind the booth across from them, cutting the heads off fish and dumping them into a basket. The pile of uneaten food was irresistible, if only they could make it past the owner.

"Brother, I'm hungry." Came a whisper from the shadows (it would have been discreet had it not been so whiny).

The merchant wielded his blade like a sword; the glint of metal striking sunlight consuming their attention as it was drawn upward, ready to strike.

"We need to distract him somehow." The other replied, more careful with the volume of his own voice.

"Throw an apple at him, then we can run while he looks for who did it."

A pause. "If you find an apple, you would do better to eat it. Besides, he will see us throwing it."

Even in the dark, there was no doubt that this logic was received poorly, probably resulting in a pout.

"But Malik... I'm hungry." The boy repeated.

"I know, little brother, be patient. He will turn away eventually."

The younger boy shuffled uncomfortably. Even while wearing such thin clothing the heat of the day soaked through their skin, making them sweat and feel itchy. Their positions didn't help much either, cramped and pressed together under the tiny stall.

A cart pulled by two donkeys passed in front of them, obscuring their view. Both boys twisted impatiently, trying to see around the obstacle. Somebody jumped down from on top of the cart, their shoes dropping only an inch short of Malik's nose.

The figure walked around to the other side, calling out a greeting and gesturing to his cargo. He spoke in a foreign tongue, harsh and quick. It took a moment for Malik to realize to whom he was speaking. The fish merchant! Now was their chance!

"Kadar, go and ask that man for some money."

"Why? He speaks weirdly."

Malik rolled his eyes, forgetting that his brother could not see him. "His coin is still good. Now do as I say, and stand to his _left_!"

Kadar pulled a face, but with a sharp poke from his bother he scrambled out from under the stall.

Malik watched as Kadar approached the stranger, suddenly limping and sniffling loudly. If Malik hadn't known any better, he would have believed the act; his brother was quite the actor. Kadar tugged lightly on the man's sleeve, looking downcast.

"P-Please Sir… some coin? I'm so hungry."

The foreigner looked down at him, but didn't reply. Beneath his grey hood he stared at Kadar for a long moment, seemingly lost in thought. Malik left their hiding place and snuck around the other side of the cart.

"You! Get away from my stall, filthy rat!"

Malik poked his head out to see the fish merchant lean forward, waving his cleaver in his brother's direction. Kadar backed away slightly, eying the weapon warily.

"Go beg somewhere else!"

Malik crept forward, taking advantage of the temporary distraction. The smell of rotting fish was strong, making his mouth water in anticipation.

"The whore houses, maybe, where men have looser pockets!"

Almost there, all he had to do was reach out and grab one… there were so many…

A gloved hand shot out from above and grabbed his outstretched arm, twisting it and forcing Malik to the ground with a startled cry. He looked up and saw the foreigner crouched above him, his face impassive. Their eyes met and Malik glared at him, wanting to spit in the man's face. The hand holding his arm squeezed threateningly, drawing tears to Malik's eyes.

"What's this? First a beggar and now a thief!"

There was a scuffle behind them, but Malik couldn't see past the body of his captor. His thoughts went instantly to his brother.

"Kadar! Run!" He cried.

The noises escalated as the stall was overturned, piles of dead fish scattering onto the road. There was a small, sudden yelp, followed by more yelling.

"Look at what you've done! How will you repay me for all this?"

The foreigner turned around to watch, still clutching Malik's arm absently. The boy struggled against his captor, desperate to get away but unable to move without causing enormous pain to his shoulder. He could see what was going on around him now, his brother had been caught around the wrist, but was still kicking and fighting.

"You will both lose a hand, that will teach you!"

A small crowd had gathered around the cart, people stopping in the street to witness the violence taking place. A reprieve from their daily tasks, no matter how crude, was always welcome.

The merchant raised his other arm, the one holding his blade. He pulled against Kadar's wrist, laying it flat against the upturned table.

"Kadar!" Malik tried again. "Let me go, let me go!" He pleaded, never had he been so frightened.

Before he could register what has happening, the pressure around his arm was gone, as was the presence above him. He gasped in relief as blood flowed back into his fingers.

Looking up jerkily, he caught sight of the foreigner standing in front of the merchant, his hand outstretched and holding the cleaver away from Kadar. He was gazing steadily out into space, as though the situation had not fazed him in the slightest.

"Unhand me! What do you think you're doing!"

"I will pay for the fish."

Kadar ceased fighting for a split second, staring up at the stranger. He'd spoken with a very rough accent, but his message had been clear. The merchant's face went blank.

"What did you say?"

The foreigner dug out some coins from within a pouch at his side and dangled them in front of the merchant's face. Kadar's eyes widened at the sight of so much money, more then he'd ever seen in his entire life.

Instantly the vendor released his hold on the young boy, grinning enormously and grabbing at the coins. As soon as his grip loosened, Kadar turned in an attempt to flee, sights already set down the street. The foreigner leaned over and caught him deftly by the collar, just as he'd started to move.

"Will that be enough?"

The merchant looked up, eyes darting along the stranger's clothes as though expecting gold to be sewn into the material. He licked his lips and ran chubby fingers over the coins in his palm.

"Well... there were a lot of people waiting to buy fish today…"

The stranger frowned at him, reaching beneath his cloak once more. The merchant's grin widened, assuming he'd tricked the foreigner into giving him more money. But the hand reemerged around a hilt; the harsh sound of metal against metal cutting through the air.

No more then an inch of the sword had been exposed and already the merchant was backing up, his throat bobbing up and down as he gulped back his surprise.

"More than enough!" He cried, pocketing the coins. "Thank you for your business _Sayyid_!"

The foreigner released the weapon and turned away, pulling Kadar behind him. He knelt to wrap an arm around Malik's stomach, hauling the boy to his feet.

"Let us go!" Malik yelled, kicking the man in the shins.

The stranger narrowed his eyes, suddenly deadly. "I just did you a favor." He growled, almost unintelligibly. "Don't _kick _me."

Malik glared at him, trying to match the man's threatening gaze. "We don't need your help!"

"Oh yeah, how'd you like to live with only one hand?"

Malik scowled and looked away.

"You're hungry right?"

"No."

"I just caught you trying to steal some fish."

"That was for someone else!"

"Who else?"

"Our sick mother."

"You're lying."

"No I'm not!"

They continued to stare each other down; the man's grip on Malik's waist tightening painfully.

Finally the stranger looked away, standing up and pulling them towards his cart.

"Come on. I have food for you, but you'll have to travel with me for a bit. I can't afford any more delays."

Malik tried to ignore the gnawing hunger in his stomach that responded violently to such an offer. He was about to refuse when Kadar whimpered, looking pleadingly at his brother.

Malik felt his confidence wavering, maybe they should go along with this strange man for now; he certainly had enough money to make it worth their while. Once he was asleep they could make off with the rest of his gold.

Malik relaxed a bit in the man's grip, confident now in his new plan. He glanced behind him at the fish merchant, who was busily counting and biting all the gold pieces. The discarded fish were being quickly snatched off the road and into the mouths of loitering beggars. Not a scrap of it remained.

The foreigner released his hold on Malik and picked Kadar up off the ground, placing him on top of the cart. When he turned to Malik, the boy looked away stubbornly and began to climb up on his own.

With a shrug the man climbed up in front of them, picking up the reins and whistling to his mules. Once they were moving he leaned over to riffle through a small rucksack, producing two perfectly round apples. He tossed them back at the boys.

Kadar bit into his greedily, slurping and sucking up the juices as they dribbled down his chin and over his fingers. His run-in with the merchant already forgotten.

"Where to, little thieves? I should return you to your parents so they can punish you properly."

Malik turned the apple over in his hands, not answering. He'd heard stories of children being plucked off the streets and sold into slavery; it was not uncommon in Haifa. If he had to imagine a way in which a man would entice a child into following him, a treat and a few innocent questions would be likely strategies. There were no parents to worry about Malik and Kadar going missing, but it would be better for the man to think otherwise.

"Our father is Saladin the Great Sultan!" Kadar piped up, bouncing in his seat. "So you had better not harm us!"

Malik reached over to cuff his brother, but the cart lurched around and made him miss his target.

The man laughed, an odd throaty sound. "I have heard of Saladin's two sons. Who knew they had such a taste for raw fish!"

Malik glared at his feet, trying very hard not to listen to the giggles of his brother.

"_Sayyid_," Kadar continued, annoying Malik with the sudden honorific. "Where are you going with all these things?"

"Acre." The man replied. "And you may call me Yosef."

Kadar smiled and stretched out his legs, apparently satisfied. Malik tried to recall an old map he'd seen of the outlaying cities, remembering that Acre was just north of Haifa. He estimated it to be about two days away. The man would have to stop and rest at some point, leaving Malik and Kadar alone with all that gold.

The cart continued down the road, passing the shop stalls and the main square. Passing all the piss and poverty that lined the streets so thoroughly this far into the outskirts. They made it past the city guards, who eyed them with disinterest before letting them through.

Malik felt a twinge of satisfaction as he watched the city disappear behind them. The fresh air smelling sweeter to him then any food he'd ever tasted.

"How old are you?" Yosef asked after about an hour of riding.

Malik couldn't see any harm in answering this honestly. "I am nine, my brother is six."

Yosef nodded stiffly. He looked over his shoulder at Kadar, who had fallen asleep with his head in Malik's lap. The steady rhythm and lack of stimulating conversation made it hard to stay awake on the open road. Malik had to fight the fatigue off, pinching himself every so often.

"Go to sleep." Yosef said, turning back to his reins. "I'll wake you up when we arrive."

Malik huffed indignantly, unsure of when they'd agreed to travel all the way to Acre. However he couldn't deny that the day's events had taken their toll on him. Maybe just a quick nap…

XxXxX

Malik awoke to the sound of voices speaking nearby. He shifted uncomfortably on the cart, trying to block out the noise that was disturbing his sleep. Didn't those people know he was trying to rest? Who were they, chatting so early in the morning?

Malik's eyes flew open. His memories of the previous day came rushing back to him, making his blood run cold. He reached out a hand for his brother, and felt instant relief when his fingers brushed against Kadar's leg.

"Safety and Peace, Yosef."

_Yosef_. Malik thought; at least the foreigner was still with them. He turned around slowly, careful not to make any unnecessary noise. If only he could see how far away the voices were coming from, this could be their chance!

He squinted out into the growing dark, barely able to make out their surroundings. They appeared to be in a small courtyard, open on only one side to the deserted street beyond.

"If you have no use for them… The older one…"

Malik followed the sound of the voices, but they seemed to be coming from behind a wall. He got off the cart to investigate, tiptoeing his way toward the sounds.

"They better not get stolen A-Sayf! Last year you lost them all in Damascus!"

"I remember."

Malik stopped before a great fountain set into the stone wall and reaching up to his nose. There was a symbol painted above it in black: a triangle with a rounded bottom. He did not recognize it's meaning, but somehow he felt its significance.

"Very well. Safety and Peace, Rafiq."

There was a mumbled reply, then a sudden clamoring from the other side. Malik frowned up at the roof, where the sound seemed to be loudest.

Another second and Yosef had landed before him, holding an enormous book between his gloved hands. He didn't seem surprised to find Malik standing there staring at him. He merely smiled and turned away, walking back to his cart.

"H-hold on!" Malik shouted. "I heard what you were saying in there. You're going to sell us, aren't you! In Damascus!"

Yosef leaned against the cart to face him once more. "No." He replied calmly. "I paid fifty gold pieces for those fish you ruined."

Malik frowned. "What does that have to do with–"

"You and your brother might fetch me ten pieces each on the slave market. I'd be losing money." Yosef held out the book for Malik to see, then lifted the canvas covering his cart to reveal many more tomes of similar size and make. "My job is to transport these ledgers. I have no interest in young children."

"Then why did you help us?"

The man hesitated, busying himself with stuffing the book into his cart. "Your brother is a sound sleeper," he said distractedly, "too many nights spent on the street."

A moment of silence. They both watched as the young boys chest rose and fell with each breath.

"My brother's name is Kadar."

Yosef looked up and stared at him, then smiled.

"And my name is Malik."

XxXxX

**A/N:** This story has been consuming me from the moment I started playing AC1 to the moment I finished AC2. It took me quite a while to figure out the direction I was going to take this, and longer still to do all the research required (I refuse to believe that traveling from Masyaf to Jerusalem would take less then a week, even on horseback).

Malik and Kadar's lack of in-game background is a somewhat mixed blessing. I dislike using OCs but don't really have much choice. I sincerely hope Yosef's appearance hasn't driven anyone away; he is short-lived.

Haifa was (and still is) a real city located just south of Acre.

A useful map: http : / www . Fordham . edu / halsall / maps / crusaders 2 . jpg


	2. Flags

**Outlaying town of Masyaf…**

Altaïr crouched against the hot tiles of the roof, his leather boots tightening painfully around his ankles. The street below was silent; the midday sun far too hot for any kind of social activity. Altaïr reached out to grip the ledge, pulling against the hold to make sure nothing would come loose at the wrong moment. Satisfied, he swung himself over the edge and let go.

It wasn't a very far drop, only about eight feet, but Altaïr felt a distinct surge of pride as he landed soundlessly on the road below (if it weren't for all the dirt he'd kicked up, half chocking himself to death, the moment would have been perfectly regal).

He ran a hand along the pouch at his hip, double-checking that its contents were still in place. All the novices had been sent out that morning to gather flags hidden within the city. It was an easy, boring task that usually only took a couple hours; the trick was not getting any of your flags stolen by other trainees. The lazier ones tended to wait around in the shade for someone to pass by with a full pouch; it was a good trick if you had the patience. Altaïr definitely did not. He counted his flags silently: twenty-five.

A shadow passed over the street and Altaïr looked up quickly enough to see another novice flying over the gap in the buildings. The figure landed awkwardly on the opposite roof, letting out a small curse. Altaïr recognized the voice and called out lazily.

"Are you all right Jamal? Have you broken anything?"

The boy whirled around and almost lost his balance, teetering dangerously for a couple seconds. He glared down at Altaïr.

"Shut up Altaïr." Jamal snapped. "At least I'm not walking the streets like a beggar."

Altaïr yawned enormously, relishing in the look of utter annoyance passing over Jamal's face. "Well, good luck finding the rest of your flags." He said. "If there are any left..."

Jamal's thick eyebrows furrowed in outrage, his mouth contorting oddly. Altaïr predicted the boy's next move, and he ducked out of the way just as a thick wad of saliva came soaring in his direction.

"You aim like a blind man." He stated matter-of-factly, straightening once the projectile had splattered safely on the wall behind him.

Before Jamal could think of a proper comeback, Altaïr set off down the street, sprinting as hard as he could away from the other boy. His pride told him to stay where he was and face his opponent, but his itchy robes and sweaty forehead were quickly becoming very hard to ignore. He could deal with Jamal later.

XxXxX

Al Mualim folded up the chart on his desk, disgruntled, and proceeded to pace about the room. The Assassins gathered in the library all exchanged glances; their Master rarely showed this level of aggravation.

"And no word after his arrival in Acre?" He asked no one in particular, readily assuming the answer to be forthcoming.

"No, Master." Replied one of his subordinates.

Al Mualim's lips thinned. "Then he is dead, and you must begin searching for his caravan."

One of the subordinates came forward, his head bowed in respect. He wore the cowl and armor of a Master Assassin, though in the presence of his leader the hood was drawn away from his face.

"I will go to Damascus." He said. "That is where the Rafiq said Yosef was headed."

Al Mualim nodded approvingly. "Very well. Now as for–" He cut himself short, glancing at the left entryway suspiciously. He motioned silently to one of his followers, who glided smoothly across the room and disappeared behind the archway. There came a sudden yelp and sounds of a small struggle. Huffing angrily, the Assassin returned to his comrades, pulling a novice behind him by the arm.

"I caught this little one with his ear pressed against the wall." He shoved the boy out in front of Al Mualim, who smiled crookedly.

"Ah, Altaïr. How is it I'm not surprised." The Master walked back behind his desk and sat down. "Did you collect all the flags?"

Altaïr frowned defiantly at the floor, hating the man who'd embarrassed him in front of so many Master Assassins. He hadn't realized how many of them were gathered in the room, seven all in one place! He tugged off his pouch and laid it on Al Mualim's desk, refusing to make eye contact. "Yes, Master." He answered stiffly.

"Very well, you may go now."

Altaïr turned swiftly to leave, surprised and grateful that his embarrassment was so short lived. He'd started walking away when suddenly a hand descended on his shoulder, big and rough, forcing him to stop mid-stride. He looked up at his captor, startled. It was the Master Assassin who'd spoken before, the one who'd volunteered to journey all the way to Damascus.

Altaïr glared up at him. At his father.

"Show some respect for your Master. He grants you forgiveness, though you do not deserve it." The older man pushed against Altaïr's shoulder, forcing the boy back in front of the Master.

Altaïr clenched his fists at his sides, wanting to argue but knowing it would just lead to a beating. He turned back to Al Mualim, lowering his head and bending slightly at the waist. Usually he wasn't made to bow in this way, and it felt awkward standing there in front of all his superiors. As soon as the appropriate time was up, Altaïr backed away, head still bowed, until he was behind the ring of Assassins. None of them had turned to watch him leave, but he was sure they would wait for him to be gone before continuing their conversation. As soon as he made it around the corner, Altaïr dashed away, eager to bury his embarrassment and growing hunger.

XxXxX

Altaïr was hardly the only novice whose parents were in the Assassin Order. Most of the older Assassins were expected to have children as part of their duty to the Creed, but rarely did they live long enough to see their offspring in uniform. In a sense, Altaïr was lucky, one of his parents was still alive.

But the relationship he shared with his father was no different from what he expected from the other Master Assassins. There had never been any love between his parents, and his father showed no great affection for their son. For the most part he existed as a periphery being, sometimes exercising his rights as a biological parent in annoying and invasive ways.

Like today, for example, grabbing him and making him grovel in front of the Master. Why had he done that! Altaïr kicked the wall in frustration, making the novice beside him jump in surprise.

He stood with a group of trainees waiting in line for food, most of them still panting and sweating from the day's task. An enormous pot of food sat in the middle of the main courtyard, surrounded by hungry children and Assassins of varying status.

"What are you so upset about?" Came a quiet voice from behind him.

Altaïr didn't bother facing his inquisitor, he'd seen her approaching a long while ago.

"Jamal is what." He lied smoothly, not wanting to talk about his upsetting encounter in the library just yet.

"Don't tell me he finally managed to spit on you!"

Altaïr rounded on his friend, expression sour. "Adha. I'm about to eat."

The girl threw her head back and laughed, her hair flowing down her back in a dark stream. Her novice clothes were clean, Altaïr noticed, and he wondered what she'd been up to while the rest of them had been running around town searching for flags.

"What was it then?" She asked, eyes still sparkling with mirth.

"Nothing. He's just annoying." Altaïr kicked the wall again. "And he fails at everything." He added for good measure.

"He's all right with a sword." Adha commented offhandedly. "Better then you."

"No one's better than me."

"I am!"

"No you aren't."

"Everyone knows you have no skill with a blade."

"You don't even _have_ a blade." Altaïr said, smirking and pointing to his crotch.

Adha made a face at him as they reached the end of the line. The food was mushy and unidentifiable, but it was all they were ever served within the walls of Masyaf's fortress. The two accepted their meals and walked towards their normal spot: a giant pile of hay right outside the main gates. A comfortable silence settled over them as they ate, neither willing to revisit their earlier argument.

"What were you doing today?" Altaïr asked once he was finished, setting down his empty bowl. "I know you weren't out training with the others."

"I was practicing with my daggers." She answered simply, not looking up from her food.

Before Altaïr could question her further, the gates of the fortress were thrown open, causing the two of them to jump at the unexpected noise. They watched as a horse galloped through the gates at full speed, passing them and going down the mountain towards the town below. Astride the horse rode a Master Assassin, unmistakable in his full regalia. They couldn't get a good look at his face, but as they watched him disappear into the growing darkness, Altaïr felt sure it was his father.

Suddenly the information he'd overheard in the Master's library swelled in mind. They'd sent out a Master Assassin to find one man? Who was this Yosef that had everyone so worried…

XxXxX

**A/N: **Altaïr enters! All of these characters are from the game (Adha is mentioned briefly in AC1, but plays a major role in AC: Altaïr's Chronicles). Although his last name means Son-of-None, Altaïr _does_ have Assassin parents. This was mentioned in one of the codex pages during AC2 and in the AC wiki.

**Reviews:**

**RueLi:** I'm glad you liked it so far. I really enjoy reading fanfics that take a look into the character's past, not just their future :) Thanks for the review! **Hyarou:** Thanks for the review; I hope to keep your interest throughout! **HumanElement:** Thank you so much :) I hope to update this at _least_ once a month, so stay tuned!


	3. Nightmares

**Travelers Camp, Byblos – 1175 A.D.**

_There is a steady rocking all around. The kind that goes slowly in one direction and settles, then falls quickly back to its original position. The motion is alive with the energy of a living being, a gentle sway to lull a child._

_Oh sweet tearful son of mine,  
At once so naughty and yet divine,  
Close those two eyes nice and tight,  
So I might have some sleep tonight.  
_

_The words of the song are clear, but even more is the voice behind them. Beautiful to listen to but painful to remember. The rocking is replaced by a deep chuckle, accompanied by enormous, mischievous fingers, catching each sensitive spot to force a new spurt of uncontrollable writhing laughter._

_The fond memories are embraced but they bring with them the desperation, the burning, the flaring pain. The comfort slips away entirely and in its place come visions of fire. Oppressive heat presses in all around, choking, eating, destroying everything in sight. There are screams erupting from mouths that used to sprout music and playful words. _

_But he is on the outside, looking in. And strong arms restrain any selfless thoughts of rescue. Slowly his body tears itself apart, just listening is enough. Hearing them burn is enough. Their sounds are branded to his ears._

_Let me go. Let me go! LET ME GO!_

XxXxX

"Malik!" Somebody called out, far away. "Malik!"

He struggled to open his eyes, seeing first the remains of their hastily constructed campfire. The burned logs glowed menacingly under their blackened skins, threatening to reignite if given even the slightest gust of wind.

"Come on Malik. You were dreaming again." The voice was closer now, coming from just above him. After much effort he managed to tear his eyes away from their makeshift fire, giving his attentions to his younger brother.

Kadar fixed him with a fearsome look, one which probably would have to mature a few years before it had its desired effect. "You talk in your sleep and this time it got close to yelling. It's a good thing Yosef is a heavy sleeper!"

Malik sat up, pushing his brother away gently. "Go back to your books Kadar. I'm fine." He stretched his arms high above his head and yawned, making a show of moving slowly to hide the tremors in his limbs. Kadar stared at him for a moment, then shrugged, shuffling back to his favorite spot beside the caravan and pulling out one of its enormous books. His attentions were immediately absorbed by the writing, as Malik knew they would be.

Malik made a show of getting up to relieve himself in the woods, all the while keeping a close eye on their older companion. It'd been five months since they'd met Yosef on the street in Haifa. Almost four since they'd been camped out in these woods. At first Malik had been suspicious of the break in their travels; a man with a caravan full of books would normally be going somewhere to sell them, otherwise he might sell them himself on the street. But none save the ones Kadar read from were ever uncovered, and even then Yosef only allowed certain books to be removed.

The woods they'd stopped in were in the old territory of Byblos. Yosef had explained that with all the recent wars between the Muslim and Christian foreigners, there were very few places left where average citizens could be certain of their safety. As a result there were near constant migrations. Whether they were headed North or South, most had to travel through Byblos, but with so many people in transit only a lucky few were allowed entry to the city. Thus the travelers camps were born; lawless places where hundreds of stragglers congregated, seeking safety in numbers from the bandits and thieves that swarmed to the masses like flies.

Malik made his way over to where their guide was sleeping, his breathing rhythmic and paced. Kadar had said he was a deep sleeper, but Malik knew better than to believe that. Yosef never slept at the same time as the children, and even when he napped during the day it was with one eye open, looking out at the world but seeing nothing. At first the habit made Malik uneasy, but now he found it comforting. It was also a good way of telling whether or not Yosef was actually asleep, and not just pretending, as he was now.

"Yosef." Malik said loudly, not bothering to play along and 'wake up' the man. "I want to train now."

Yosef's eyes opened, his gaze already locked and focused on the young boy.

"You worked too hard yesterday. Let your body rest." He said clearly, not a hint of sleep in his voice. Even so he allowed his eyes to droop closed again upon finishing his sentence.

Malik scowled, nudging Yosef with the tip of his shoe. "I barely managed that new technique, I won't be able to sleep knowing my knowledge is incomplete."

Yosef's eyes were on him again, this time searching for something in the boy's expression. "Do not lie to me Malik. A technique you'll master in two days time is not what's keeping you awake these past nights." He kept his eyes trained on Malik for a moment, daring the orphan boy to contradict him.

Malik's scowl melted away. His foolish hope that the nightmares may have escaped Yosef's notice was obviously misjudged. There were very few things the man failed to see, even while pretending to be asleep. Malik turned away from his companion, readying himself for a boring day of gathering kindling and watching over Kadar's reading.

"I suppose we could go over it a few more times." Yosef called after a pause. His voice was hesitant, and when Malik turned back around he appeared indignant, as though his mouth had betrayed him.

Malik grinned. "Yes Master!" He yelled, running to the other side of the cart to gather their equipment. In his rush he almost ran into his little brother, who was still wrapped around a book nearly twice his size.

"Suddenly I am your Master?" Yosef asked sarcastically. "I wonder at how that title slips your mind when we are not training. Old Man seems to be the preferred way of referencing my character."

Malik finished laying out the swords and bowed low to his teacher. It was true that normally Malik would refuse this sort of respect, and at first he had shown Yosef nothing but hostility. But as time passed and Yosef continued to support the two brothers, even going so far as to teach Kadar to read, Malik began to relax around their situation. It wasn't until Yosef proposed the swords however, that Malik truly began to trust him.

Although he had never seen a swordfight before, Malik understood that Yosef's skill with a blade was exceptional. There were a few men in camp who'd had experience with swordplay, if not in serious fights than simple sparring matches among friends. Yet none of them were of any use against Yosef. In no time they would find themselves on their rears, mouths agape and eyes blinking in disbelief, no doubt regretting their loudly proclaimed challenge to duel.

One afternoon, after such an event, Yosef approached Malik and a gleefully applauding Kadar, sweat still dripping down his forehead.

"I'll teach you." He had said simply. "I see your brother experiencing nothing but the joy as a spectator, but in you I see the desire to fight as I do." Malik had nodded, and that was all the agreement they needed. The next day Yosef had risen him early to begin their training, and every day after that the respect between them grew.

Now Malik listened to his Master through one ear, and his own heart in the other. As Yosef told him where to move his body, Malik moved through the movements he'd grown accustomed to these past months. His skills were somewhat lacking, given how new he was to the activity, but it was no secret to him that his talents were also exceptional, and he wondered sometimes if Yosef had known he would be a quick learner before making his proposal.

"Good." Yosef said, after several hours of maneuvers. "We're done for today."

Malik made to protest, but Yosef cut him off immediately. "And I mean it this time. See how your brother manages to get regular hours of sleep each night, try to feel inspired by his example." Yosef handed Malik his sword. "And be sure to put these away."

Malik felt the empty hilt he'd been practicing with weigh heavily in his palm, reminding him of his position and gratitude. "Yes Master."

XxXxX

_Oh sweet tearful son of mine,  
At once so naughty and yet divine,  
Close those two eyes nice and tight,  
So I might have some sleep tonight._

_The burning, aching, twisting feeling corrupts the mind. Turns it into a frenzy of activity and desperation._

_The screams surround him, fill his head and mind and soul with the memories he's imagined of his dying family. Louder and Louder._

XxXxX

Malik's eyes snapped open, his body slick with sweat. His ears were still ringing from the dream, so it took him a moment to realize that the screaming had followed him into reality. A different sort of screaming filled the air of the camp. The screaming of hundreds burning instead of a few.

His mind registered the bodies all around, bloodied and mutilated, most of them dressed in nightclothes. These strangers would not have died here in their sleep; their mangled feet had run from enemies all the way across camp, herded into a single area to be slaughtered like cattle. Herded to _this area_.

Malik felt around his makeshift bed underneath the caravan, searching for his brother. The relief he felt when he found the sleeping form beside him was short lived, as sounds of the outside began getting closer.

The screaming was distant, but there were people moving not a few feet away. Shuffling feet across the ground and the occasional clash of metal on metal was all Malik needed to hear to know that Yosef was still alive.

He peeked out from below the caravan and saw eight men, all cloaked in white with a large red crest across their chests, swords drawn and facing Yosef from all sides. His master was badly injured, a deep wound had severed the use of his right arm, and there were several gashes along both legs. Yet still his Master fought on, advancing on one enemy then turning swiftly to beat back another. Although they outnumbered him, the bandits seemed weary of advancing any further.

Malik shut his eyes as tightly as he could, trying desperately to drown out the screaming coming from all directions. If only he could ignore their endless wailing, then maybe he could join in the fight and help his Master escape. There came a rustling from the bushes on the other side of the caravan, and instantly Malik's body went rigid with fear. It came again and Malik forced himself to breath in sharply, to roll out from under the caravan and grasp at the only weapon he could see. Yosef's sword had been put away in the wrong spot, laid out amongst the practice swords instead of by the owner's side. Malik lifted it with difficulty, but managed to steady it with two hands clasped around the hilt.

There was barely any time to prepare, in the next instant the bushes erupted with life. Four men came jumping out, immediately engaging in the fight with Yosef. Malik charged at the closest one, blade held high above his head. He was vaguely aware of his throat producing a strangled cry, but it was lost in the sounds already surrounding them.

It didn't take very long for the man he'd attacked to shove him away, ignoring him for some greater purpose Malik had failed to recognize. As he was forced to the ground a second time he noticed that those who'd entered the fight most recently were quickly dispatching the bandits who were overcoming Yosef. Yosef whose form he could no longer make out in the midst of all these newly fallen bodies.

And then Malik noticed their uniforms. Their long white robes were similar to those of the bandits, but they wore cowls to cover their faces, and the garish red crests were nowhere to be found. The one Malik fought had his back turned now, and decorating his belt was a symbol painted in black: a triangle with a rounded bottom.

XxXxX

Malik tried to concentrate on the uneven breathing of his little brother as he watched the men stand in silence around his master's prone form. Yosef's limbs had ceased their eerie twitching, and he now lay still on the muddy ground. No one had spoken a word since the fighting had stopped and Malik found himself wishing for more violence to help relieve his raging blood.

One of the cloaked men approached their caravan, slowly and deliberately, as though trying not to startle a pair of caged animals. Normally Malik would have taken Kadar and fled as soon as the last bandit threat had dropped, but from head to toe the man was covered in the blood of their shared enemies. And the body of his dead master was still warm not ten feet away.

As he knelt before the two boys, Malik noticed that the man had a red sash tucked into his belt, the same shade as the blood still dripping from his clothes. The man removed a stiff leather glove from his right hand, revealing a conspicuously missing finger. Malik flinched as the mangled flesh drew near and touched his face, the four calloused fingertips surprisingly gentle against his cheek.

"Who are you." The man demanded.

Malik tried to look into the man's eyes, but their brown depths were still cold from the recent brutality, and Malik couldn't decipher his intentions one way or another. He looked to his brother instead, who still lay hidden beneath the caravan, curled into himself. Malik remembered what Yosef had told them to say incase of this very situation, but did that emergency scenario apply to men who clearly recognized and considered Yosef a comrade?

"My name is Malik, and we are traveling merchants from Acre. My father is a salesman of books and other goods." His voice came out stronger than he was expecting, although he could hardly hear it above the rush in his ears. "We were moving this load alone when the bandits arrived."

"Your father lets you travel without an escort? The city is a long ways from here."

Malik bristled, feeling the sudden urge to defend his false identity. "We know the routes better than most."

"So you are of no acquaintance to this man." The stranger's eyes traveled to where Yosef lay and back again.

"No I've never- well I've seen him before but-" Malik struggled to come up with a good excuse for being in the swordsman's company, but none were forthcoming.

"And you say these books belong to your father, a merchant from Acre." The hand on his face retreated and Malik flinched back. The nameless man stood and gestured to his comrades, and without explanation one of their number came forward to throw off the cover of the cart. The pile of books seemed to offer their leader some measure of relief, but he was quick to turn his attentions to Malik once again. His gaze landed on the sword still clutched in Malik's hands.

"You fight very well for a boy who's been reading books all his life. Was it your father who taught you the ways of the blade?"

Malik hesitated. Would he be getting them into even more trouble if he admitted to learning the sword arts from one of their own?

"Yes. I learned from my father in Acre when I was still a little boy."

"I see. And that sword belonged to your father?"

Malik glanced at Yosef then back again. "Yes." He replied strongly.

The hooded figure who had uncovered their supplies now climbed onto the front seat, while another brought him a horse. Together they tied the beast to the reins and secured it to the caravan.

"It is a shame that you feel the need to lie, little Malik. In the end nothing is true."

Malik felt his heart stop at the man's words. Nothing is true? He could have sworn he'd heard Yosef say something similar… more than once. There was more to it though, what had his master said?

"Nothing is true, everything is permitted." Came a small voice from the ground.

Malik and the leader both looked over at Kadar, who was only now scrambling out of his hiding place from under the caravan. His sudden appearance surprised no one but the horse tethered to the cart he'd been under.

"And where did you learn that?" Asked the man.

Kadar got up and brushed off his pants. It seemed like a inconsistently polite thing to do given the ordeal they'd just been through. When he was done he pointed over to Yosef's body, his fingernails caked in mud and gore.

"From him."

The man seemed to smile a bit at this confession, but it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared. He put his glove back on, concealing the amputated finger. The minute it was out of sight Malik wondered if he'd been imagining it.

"Well it would be against my better judgment to rob two children of their merchandise then leave them alone in the woods. Why don't you travel with us to Masyaf; we'll keep you safe along the road."

Malik hesitated. He was expecting to be robbed, beaten, tethered to the cart like the horse and sold as a slave in Damascus. Perhaps it was their intention to have Malik and Kadar go willingly with them, perhaps a beating would lower the price of a slave. Perhaps they would be sold into the galleries, a place Malik shuddered to even consider.

Beyond their conversation, one of the hooded figures dropped to his knees before Yosef's body, his back turned to Malik. Although he could not make out his face, Malik could see the man's shoulders slump forward in grief. Another man joined him and began a prayer, singing it just loud enough for them all to hear, but not so loud as to rob each of their own thoughts.

The song was in a strange tongue, and it was delivered with a roughness that could have only meant it was not native to the speaker. Malik thought of what Yosef had said about not having a place in these wars between the Muslims and the Christians. That his people were older than the others; the original inhabitants of Jerusalem.

The music concluded and the two men began arranging the body for travel. They were slow in going about their task, careful not to harm what was left of the body. Malik was struck when the mourner turned his head, and his face was a mask of indifference, even with fresh tears cutting across the dirt clinging to his cheeks.

"All right." Malik said slowly, his eyes returning to the leader. "We'll travel with you as far as the next city."

XxXxX

**A/N: **Long in coming, but I like this chapter. The newcomer's identity should be fairly obvious given the previous chapter, but it'll become even clearer given time.

**Reviews:**

**Galen Hithwen: **Thank you for the review :) I hope the delay hasn't turned you off the story. **Hyarou: **Thanks for the review! Don't worry, Altair's father plays a big role in the beginning of this storyline. According to Chronicles women were given equal opportunity within the order, and Altair's mother was a Master Assassin in her day. Keep reading! **HumanElement:** Thanks for reviewing again :) Hehe I had a lot of fun with Altair's little boy personality… surprisingly not so different from his grown up one! **RenISGayOk:** ooh, get me some :) Thanks for the review! **ScarletCougar:** Thanks for both reviews :) Here's another chapter full of Malik and Kadar, I hope you liked it. Not much action but plenty of backstory lol. Keep reading! **iLoli:** Thank you for the review. I hope you keep reading! **Reye-chan dA: **Thank you for the review :) Don't worry, they'll be meeting up in the next couple chapters!

**Thanks to everyone who added this to their favorites and alert subscriptions. I'd like to hear what you think!**


	4. The Oasis

**A/N: **I've decided to take this story off hiatus a little early. Originally I wanted to wait for the new AC: Revelations game, since Ubisoft is no doubt going to throw all kinds of new characters into the mix. Luckily for me (and you), Ubi is terrible at keeping secrets and most of the Altaïr-related storyline has already been spoiled. I will be making some very minor edits to past chapters, but nothing major. Thank God.

XxXxX

**The road, Somewhere in Tripoli…**

None of their companions had names.

Malik and Kadar had been traveling with Yosef's comrades for eight long days, yet most of their journey was spent in silence. At first they walked through the woods, giving other wandering parties a wide birth. When the trees stopped they continued across an endless open desert, its vast expanse making Malik think of the sea. He did not miss Haifa, but at least when he was there he knew one day from the next. These foreign lands were meaningless to him, and there was no discernable distance between one dusty bush to the next.

Kadar didn't seem too troubled by any of this. While awake, he chatted and laughed almost continuously. The lack of response didn't seem to bother him, and his conversations were mostly held rhetorically. It didn't take very long for some of the less-than-stoic members of their guard to crack under the pressure; concealing small smiles under their cowls and laughing lightly at Kadar's antics. By their second week together, Kadar had bewitched them all.

One in particular had taken to riding alongside the cart, listening to the young boy coo and caw at their abysmal surroundings. The man had an incredibly bushy beard, making it easier to tell when his mouth pulled upwards into a smile, which it did often.

"Malik, did you see that? There's an eagle! Up there, look!" Malik squinted up at the sky in the direction of Kadar's finger, but there was nothing.

Bushy Beard leaned over in his saddle and pointed in the opposite direction. A small speck was circling in the sky, barely visible against the glare of the sun.

"I see it," Malik said to his brother. "You have good eyes, but you'll ruin them by staring at the bright sky all day."

Kadar pouted. "Then where can I look. I don't see anything else."

That night, Bushy Beard pulled another man aside, and the two spoke in hushed voices for nearly an hour. The other man was young and broad across the shoulders, with most of his nose missing. He approached Malik and Kadar the next day with four of their practice swords in hand, setting to work driving their points into each corner of the caravan. When he was done he removed the cloth covering the books and draped it over his makeshift pillars, covering the caravan in shade.

Once inside their new shelter, Kadar seemed to relax a bit, settling down to read through the old ledgers piled up beneath them, and falling asleep with his face planted between the pages.

It was good that Kadar was keeping up with his reading. Yosef had been overly indulgent when it came to Kadar, an act not uncommon among the young boy's acquaintances. It hadn't taken much to convince him to teach Kadar the letters, and then the words they formed. Malik knew how to read already, had known from a very young age, but he was not interested in reading old accounts from long-dead men. It was a wonder Kadar managed to stay focused.

It was on their eighteenth day that they found an oasis large enough to bathe in. Malik would have worried they were lost if it weren't for the complete lack of concern amongst the men, who seemed to recognize the area without needing any obvious landmarks. But for all Malik knew of their final destination, they could be riding all the way to Heaven.

Kadar was quick to strip down and dive into the pool, leaving a trail of clothes behind him. Bushy Beard and Noseless were not far behind, if not a little more reserved with their clothing. The rest of the group soon joined in, leaving only two men to grudgingly guard their supplies.

Malik took his time in the water, first wadding in gently to his knees, then slipping down to his chin. He noticed the man who'd sung over Yosef's body had his eyes closed, face turned up towards the sun. Another man was trying to comb fingers through his hair, cursing every time he caught a snarl. Another had a long jagged scar across his back, dancing from shoulder to hip. Another was missing an ear. Another, a hand.

Under the sun and stripped bare, these men were all imperfect. Without their uniforms they had whole chunks missing, and Malik had to look away from some of the more severe disfigurements. He had seen bodies before, dead ones and ones without heads, but this was different. There was no horror here; these men wore their scars like dogs did fur.

He ducked his head under the surface and relief washed over him as the realization came. These men were not slavers, or book merchants, or rapists. Most important of all, they weren't soldiers.

Malik had seen soldiers in Haifa. Most of them were dismissed, or on leave, and it was rare to see more than a couple of soldier patrolling the streets in a day. Haifa had been peaceful for the most part, and the Arab and Christian generals made use of its services when their sitting armies grew restless. Malik and Kadar had learned early how to spot the desperate men, driven to stupidity by drink or dread or having seen too many dead friends. A soldier would follow orders and die for his king, but if you cut off his arm and asked him to keep marching, he probably wouldn't.

Despite their mutilations, none of these men seemed beaten or broken. They laughed and smiled in the water, racing each other and throwing Kadar when he begged. _These men are here of their own volition, _he realized. _They're here because they want to help us._

It didn't take long for Kadar to fall asleep that night. He was barely dry by the time his eyes closed and his breath steadied, curled up atop the books and probably ruining some of the thick leather covers.

Malik took longer to relax, although the cool evening breeze brushing against his bare skin made him feel better than he had in months. He studied his brother for a while, marveling at the new layer of fat that had wrapped itself around Kadar's naturally thin frame. He looked healthy and contented, with a glimmer behind his eyes that Malik hadn't seen in years.

It was with a soft sigh that Malik finally closed his eyes, wishing for a dreamless sleep to carry him through the night.

XxXxX

Laying there on the caravan, listening to the figure approach them in the dead of night, Malik had to temper his breathing and pray his thundering heartbeat wouldn't give him away.

There was no reason for him to be nervous. Chances were it was just one of the men shuffling about their camp, trying to find a good place to piss in the dark.

But the lightly treading footsteps were definitely getting closer, and in no time Malik could hear one of the caravan's side-sacks being pulled loose. By the muffled sounds of clanking metal, Malik assumed they were taking the swords.

He risked a quick peek out from under his lids, barely making out the dark blur departing towards the water, side-sack still in hand.

Malik couldn't think of any good reason to follow, in fact, the rational part of his mind was begging for him to simply go back to sleep and forget about it. In the end his curiosity won out, as it always did, and he jumped down off the caravan to pursue.

It wasn't hard to follow the man through the short brush surrounding the oasis. Even with their uncanny silence along the road and quiet feet upon the ground, none of the strange men would be able to avoid making noise while carrying five swords all wrapped in the same bundle.

Malik kept a good fifteen feet between them, and soon the man reached the water. Malik hadn't realized how large their pool was until he saw the moon shimmering on the surface. The reflection made everything around it glow twice as bright, including the man's face. Malik shuffled a bit to the left, and recognized him immediately.

The Leader knelt down and placed the side-sack on the sand, extracting one of the swords and holding it out in front of him. He studied the steel for a long time, fingering the intricate designs of the pommel. Malik recognized this one quicker. In the moonlight there was no mistaking Yosef's sword.

The Leader's mouth moved, and Malik heard him clearly in the still night air. "Goodbye, old friend," he whispered, and with one swift motion he'd sent the sword flying across the water. It sliced through the surface without so much as a splash, and then it was gone.

Malik stared at the ripples in shock. Had that really just happened? Yosef's sword had been as much a part of the man as his own face, and as long as it had been traveling with them, Malik didn't feel as though he'd lost his mentor completely.

Blindly, Malik made his way towards the water, his feet splashing loudly against the sandy bottom. He'd only managed to get up to his ankles when a strong arm gripped him around the stomach, pulling him away.

"Let me go!" he cried, aiming a kick behind him. "Why did you throw it away?"

"Be quiet."

Malik's struggles took on even more ferocity than before. There was no way he could set aside the rage he felt. He had to get the sword back before he forgot where it'd landed.

"Stay silent or I'll cut out your tongue."

The threat did the trick, and Malik felt his body go limp as the cold press of steel caressed his throat.

"That's better. You nearly killed us all with those screams, you and you brother foremost."

The Leader carried him away from the water, blade still poised at his neck. Once they were a safe distance away, he crouched so that Malik's feet just barely brushed the ground.

"I will explain what I can to you, but only if you agree to stay still," the Leader hissed into his ear. Malik nodded stiffly and the blade withdrew with a click.

"You are not a stupid boy," the Leader started, still not letting Malik turn to face him, "but I have no reason to bring you along with us other than the faith and respect I had for Yosef." He let out a frustrated noise. "I cannot imagine for what purpose Yosef brought you along with him. But now I am bringing you and your brother to my home, and to the home of my sworn brothers of which Yosef was one. There are things I cannot explain to you, but that are of vital importance that you understand."

The Leader dropped Malik to the ground, but didn't give Malik any time to straighten up before gripping his shoulders and forcing him around, glaring into his eyes. "Your mother was a whore and Yosef was your father. He spent five months trying to find you and bring you back to Masyaf."

Malik opened his mouth to protest; that was impossible. He could remember his parents, he even had a vague memory of watching his mother cradle Kadar, newborn and squalling. The Leader's hands squeezed down painfully, and the words died in his throat. "You knew nothing of your father until he found you. He was on route back to Masyaf when some thieves attacked him, and there was _never any sword_."

Malik gulped back another retort. The men who'd attacked them were no thieves. They'd been too well equipped and much better trained. But now Malik was beginning to understand. "They killed him in his sleep," Malik assented, "thieves couldn't have gotten him any other way."

The Leader regarded him for a moment, then nodded. "Now say it, and believe it. But do not despair, little Malik Al-Sayf, for nothing is true in the end."

XxXxX

Whatever trepidation Malik may have been feeling after that night in the oasis disappeared the very next morning. Kadar was the last to wake, and the first to start making use of his legs, running around their makeshift campsite and refusing to put his soggy clothes back on.

How many weeks of starvation would it take to return his brother's features to their former hollowness? How many days before they died of thirst out in this desert? They would have been killed in the attack three weeks ago if it hadn't been for these men. And if Yosef hadn't intervened in the first place, Kadar would have lost a hand that day in the market.

Malik did not quite understand why he must lie about his parents, or about the sword they would be leaving behind, but he understood perfectly that if he refused they would die. So Malik held his tongue and forced his brother's shirt up over his wriggling head.

XxXxX

It only took them three days to reach the first town outside the desert, and Malik could tell by the looks on the men's faces that they were getting close to Masyaf. Malik had no idea what to expect, so at the first sight of rooftops in the distance he nudged his brother and pointed them out.

"Are we there now?" Kadar called out excitedly. "Is that it, _Sayyid_?"

Bushy Beard shook his head, and Noseless let out a nasally laugh. They soon realized why when the buildings grew closer, and it became clear that it wasn't so much a town as a single small inn with an adjoining privy and stable.

The men didn't stop to speak with anyone, nor did they at the next few homes, or the ones after that. Even when their hoofs hit pavement instead of sand, and they started having to navigate their way through populated streets; none of them so much as glanced around.

Kadar was not so difficult to please. His head was constantly pivoting and bouncing, locking onto one thing long enough to comment on it, then on to the next. He was dazzled just as easily by the cats in the street as by the fire-breathing entertainers.

Malik could have laughed when he saw Masyaf for the first time. The town itself was unremarkable, but for the enormous structure standing atop a steep hill. The fortress overlooked everything below, and Malik could make out tiny white specks moving to and fro on the battlements. It was so formidable and daunting that the rich manses they'd passed earlier seemed tiny and insignificant by comparison.

As they made their way up the steep incline, Malik couldn't help but notice the number of eyes training after them. In the other towns, people had dismissed them. A cursory once over might make an idle man curious, but no one with a job to do would give them so much as a second glance. Here they seemed to be the center of attention.

Not only that; nearly everyone near the fortress was wearing the same plain white uniform as Yosef and their guards. Some wore it in a different style, and some had a lighter grey shade over their cowls, but all of them wore the simple shift. And all of them were armed to the teeth.

XxXxX

**A/N: **I'd like to give special thanks to Doubleleaf on DeviantArt, who's affaire with Shaun/Des really got me thinking during our brainstorming sessions. Look out for her next set of AM stories.. I wrote a few of them :)

**Reviews:**

**White Fleur: **Thank you for the review, I hope you keep reading! **Hyarou: **I know it's been a while, and I hope this one still gets to you :) The mourning scene is one of my favorites too! **MiMi:** Thank you for the review, I hope you keep reading!** Vyse Arcadia: **Thank you very much, I hope you like the rest as well :) **Sixteen Clumsy and Shy:** Thanks a bunch! I'm glad you like it. **Aunty Soshul: **Ah it was necessary :( but he'll still pop up in the story from time to time. Great name by the way! **Youngwriter123:** Oh man you're the best part of my day. I hope I haven't lost you between the long updates! I'm very happy you liked it, thank you for reviewing :) **Nekokoa: **Thanks for the reviews! To answer your question, I'll be focusing mostly on their past, trying to build up their relationship as much as possible before the 'current' game time. My goal is to make what happened in the game believable from this new perspective. Does that make any sense? I hope so or this story is fucked. **Callek Darren: **Thank you very much, I love writing this story and it means a lot that you enjoyed reading it ;)


	5. Practice Swords

**Assassins' Fortress – Masyaf…**

Altaïr gazed out across the courtyard, watching the other novices practice their swordplay against straw dummies. His own blade was lowered to the ground, scraping against the stones. The clash of steel on steel rang up from the arena in the center of their practice area, acting as a constant reminder that Altaïr's sword was made of wood. Not deadly at all. A ring of spectators surrounded the fight, and Altaïr could tell it was an interesting match by the excited cheers rising from the crowd.

A particularly loud whoop sounded, startling a group of crows from the wall and into the sky. Altaïr watched their path through the air as they circled high over his head and rose over the great gates of the fortress. Altaïr squinted as they disappeared against the sun.

There was a commotion on the other side of the main gates; a crowd gathering around a small caravan, several Assassins sat astride nervous horses, keeping the others at bay.

Altaïr looked back towards the courtyard, searching. His combat instructor, Labib, was just barely visible amongst the crowd of captivated spectators, eyes fixed on the arena and shouting angry advice.

Dropping his useless weapon in disgust, Altaïr raced towards the benches surrounding the training area. He had to reach to get a good grip on the loose stones closest to the bench, but once he managed to get a proper hold, his ascent was quick and effortless. Over the wall, he dropped down to the spiraling walkway that ran along the entire outside face of the fortress. Normally there would be several watchmen on him already, but they were all huddled by the gates, its gleaming steel spikes rising above them menacingly.

It wasn't hard to worm his way between them and take position directly above the spectacle. From a distance it had looked like a supply cart was having trouble getting past some over-zealous Brothers. Now that he had a closer look however, the gathering was much more formidable. The caravan at the center was loaded with books, some with the Assassin's crest imprinted on the covers, and the Brothers guarding them were all haggard and dirty with desert dust. Only one of them had the blood red sash of a Master Assassin, and it didn't take Altaïr long to recognize his father sitting astride the same great destrier he'd left on two months ago.

The most curious part of the whole scene were the two boys sitting together atop the caravan, jostling awkwardly with every step. One seemed to be enthralled by the scene unfolding around them, grinning out at the crowd and waving. The other, visibly older, was solemn, and kept looking at the weapons adorning each encroaching Brother with an air of detached concern.

"Umar Ibn-La'Ahad has returned! Open the gates!"

The guards surrounding Altaïr all jumped into action at the cry from below. Two ran on either side of the gate, unlocking the massive chain that wove through the bars at the very top. As soon as it fell loose, another set of guards on the ground began pulling the iron monster apart, its mouth opening slowly to admit entrance into their home.

As soon as the caravan disappeared beneath the wall, Altaïr ran to the other side of the walkway and watched their path into the courtyard. Al Mualim had descended his private stair into the common area, and was approaching the group with surprising speed. Altaïr remembered the conversation he'd overheard before his father had departed. He remembered how grave the Grand Master had been that day.

Al Mualim dismissed the Assassins escorting the caravan with a wave of his hand. They dismounted in obvious relief, stretching their legs and smiling wanly at their curious Brothers. Al Mualim beckoned Umar closer, and the two exchanged a few quick words. Another wave and a half dozen black-robed Assassin Scholars approached the caravan and started unloading its contents.

The older of the two boys climbed down to get out of the way, gesturing for the younger to follow. On closer inspection it was clear that the two were natural brothers. Both had the dark coastal skin of the southern cities, and they shared the same subtle bump along the nose.

Al Mualim turned away from Altaïr's father and began climbing back the steps the way he'd come. Umar said something to the boys, and all three followed the Grand Master inside.

XxXxX

Altaïr slipped silently through the window, lowering himself as slowly as possible onto the carpeted floor. The Grand Master enjoyed reading his books by the light of day, and often left one or two windows open. It had been an exhausting climb all the way up the main tower, and the stones beneath Altaïr's hands were baking under the sun. He ventured further into the Grand Master's private library, flexing his aching fingers.

"-tracked them to a camp outside Byblos. Yosef was already dead when we arrived."

Altaïr could make out his father's voice rising from below. Al Mualim's study atop the tower was spacious, and surrounded on all sides by endless rising bookshelves. Altaïr had snuck in through the second floor, where the books were the oldest and least touched. Dust crept unbidden into Altaïr's nose, and he had to stifle a sneeze. They would not be able to see him from his vantage point on the overhanging balcony, but they would hear him if he wasn't careful.

"And you say they are his natural born sons?" Al Mualim was saying, "I do not see any resemblance."

"I was also unconvinced when I first saw them, but blood will play tricks of this kind sometimes. Their mother may have given them their looks, but Yosef's talents live on through his sons."

"Talents?" There was long pause.

Altaïr inched forwards to peer between the shelves, just barely making out the four figures below. Al Mualim stood behind his massive desk, its surface strewn with half inked parchments and faded blueprints. Umar was standing upright, hands behind his back and cowl lowered in respect. Behind him were the two boys, looking acutely out of place in their tattered clothing.

"The elder, Malik, can wield a blade better than any child I've seen at his age." Umar said, "The other can read, although by all accounts he had never done so before meeting Yosef in Jerusalem."

Al Mualim seemed to contemplate this, scratching his long beard before answering. "I sent you forth to retrieve an artifact of utmost importance, and you return to me with a couple of orphaned, untrained children."

Umar inclined his head, either in confirmation or shame, Altaïr couldn't tell.

"Still, I will not waste what little value you have brought me. The younger is not yet too old to be educated, but the elder will take years to advance to the level of even our most unskilled of novices. If what you say is true, and he handles a blade as Yosef did at his age, then perhaps I will grant him a place here. You say he is better than any other child you've seen?"

"Yes, Master."

Al Mualim's mouth quirked upwards. "Then I can think of no better way to test the boy than against one of our own. If I remember correctly, Yosef was the only man in the fortress capable of disarming you in the arena. Fetch Altaïr and we shall see if blood outweighs years of training."

"As you command," Umar said, bowing and exiting the room, the boys following closely behind.

Altaïr waited for Al Mualim to disappear into his chambers before dashing back towards the window. By the time he'd made the long decent back to the courtyard, his hands were raw and there were blisters forming on each palm. Altaïr hid the evidence of his climb behind his back when he saw Labib striding towards him.

"And where have you been?" His training instructor barked, grabbing Altaïr by the ear and hauling him towards the center of the courtyard. "You're to fight a young orphan boy in the arena."

Altaïr had to jog to keep up with Labib's long legs. "Why me?" Altaïr asked, feigning ignorance.

"How should I know," Labib replied curtly. "Just do it quick and don't make me look like a fool." He shoved Altaïr through the arena gate and locked it shut behind him.

Altaïr looked across the sanded floor of the arena. His opponent stood with his feet spread, dark eyes already locked onto Altaïr's with a fierce, calculating intensity. Altaïr picked up his practice sword, wincing slightly as the rough wood scraped against burned skin. He looked the other boy up and down, sizing him up. The boy was thin, with bony arms that displayed the muscles working to lift his sword. Altaïr would have the advantage of size and strength, that was certain.

His father had called this boy Malik, son of Yosef Al-Sayf. Altaïr couldn't think of a name less suited to this scrawny, awkward youth. They stood only six feet apart, and Malik was circling him, closing in. _Like a vulture, _Altaïr thought, _he shows up as his father dies and comes to claim a birthright he doesn't deserve. _Altaïr looked up at the crowd gathered around the arena, seeking out his own father.

Movement to his left brought him back to the task at hand. When had the boy gotten so close? He rebalanced his blade, trying to redistribute the weight to relieve his sore fingers. Malik ran forward suddenly, his blade raised above his head. Altaïr sunk into an automatic defense, knocking Malik's blade aside as it came and swung his own sword at Malik's open side. The boy was quick though, and he danced out of Altaïr's reach, leaving the sword swinging stupidly though the air.

This time Altaïr was the one to advance, aiming first for Malik's left arm, then neck. Each jab was met and blocked, and by the third hit Altaïr's hand was beginning to throb. He backed away slightly, and Malik seized on the sudden retreat. The boy was quick to overreach his attack, striking at Altaïr's sword hand with fierce precision. Altaïr bit back a cry and swung out loosely, eager to put some distance between them. He realized a second after Malik did that the momentum of his desperate attack exposed his right shoulder and side, and by then it was too late. Malik shoved him bodily to the ground, and Altaïr let drop his sword in order to break his fall.

He looked up at the orphan boy standing above him, panting and holding his blade to Altaïr's throat. "I win," the boy said, barely getting the words out.

It was an impossible defeat. If Altaïr's hands hadn't been burned on the climb up the tower, things would have gone differently. Surely everyone understood that! Altaïr glanced at the crowd surrounding them, barely registering their faces. He zeroed in on his father standing off to the side, a small smile playing across his face.

Malik turned his head slightly to follow Altaïr's gaze, and the idiot's grip on his practice sword was already starting to loosen. Altaïr seized the opportunity, grabbing onto Malik's blade and thrusting it upwards into Malik's face. It smashed into the boy's nose with a crunch, and blood flowed immediately over the hilt. Malik reeled back with a yell, reaching up to staunch his wound. Altaïr clambered to his feet, ignoring the two swords in the sand and kicking Malik in the shins, sending the boy to his knees. He reached out to grip Malik by the hair, exposing the boy's neck. With his left hand he reached into his novice sash and pulled out a dagger, pressing it to Malik's throat.

"I win," Altaïr said, triumphant.

"You cheated," the boy snarled. There was blood running down his chin, and into his mouth. It dripped slowly onto Altaïr's blade and fingers.

"Everything is permitted," he replied smugly.

"Altaïr!" Someone shouted behind him. "Release the boy at once!" An enormous hand descended on his shoulder, and Labib was pulling him away roughly. "Stupid boy! You are in the training arena, or have you forgotten?" He hauled Altaïr outside the gates and dumped him unceremoniously to the ground.

"You told me to win so I did!" Altaïr said indignantly.

Labib cuffed him over the head. "I told you not to make me look like a fool. You've been taught when to yield in a fair fight; if all my students beat each other bloody, I would have none left." He pointed a meaty finger in Altaïr's face. "Perhaps I will ask Al Mualim to send you away on a mission. A few fights against the Templar scum aught to teach you the difference between a brother's blade and that of your enemy."

Altaïr was furious. "He's not a brother, he's just some boy off the street."

XxXxX

Malik sat silently on the straw bedding, looking out the narrow slit in the stone wall. The sunset outside had drawn a thin beam of light across the floor, its path traveling slowly as the hours passed. There were three other beds in the room, but no one else had entered since he'd been escorted inside. It had been the Leader who'd fetched him from the arena, Umar was his name, and he'd cleaned Malik's face wordlessly before leaving him alone. It had been Umar's son he'd fought in the arena, but Malik would never have guessed. Where Umar was silent and deliberate, Altaïr had been impatient and explosive; it had been all Malik could do to keep him at bay. _Until the sneak brought out his dagger, _Malik thought bitterly, _why had he bothered with a wooden sword in the first place. Was it just to mock me?_

All he wanted to do was talk to Kadar. He hadn't seen his brother since they'd met with the Grand Master, and he was anxious to know whether his brother was safe. He'd placed all of his faith in Umar when he stepped into the arena, but now he felt unsure. They had no other friends here, and everyone was a potential threat.

Malik had debated with himself for a long time on whether or not to tell his brother about the lie they must tell. Kadar had no memories of their parents, only things Malik had told him about their life before the streets. If Malik had told him that Yosef was really their father, the young boy might have actually believed him, would probably be delighted by the idea. In the end Malik had settled for a partial truth; that Umar thought Yosef was their natural father, and that Malik himself was not entirely sure.

His nose throbbed painfully, and he had to force himself not to pester the swollen area with his fingers. Umar had set the bones, but the blood still flowed beneath his skin and an angry bruise was blossoming across his nose and left cheek.

An hour later there came a knock at the door, and a boy about his own age entered the room. He stood about a head shorter than Malik, with thin, wispy black hair and big protruding ears. He wore the same uniform as Altaïr, and Malik eyed him suspiciously.

"You're the one who fought Altaïr in the arena," the boy said by way of greeting.

Malik nodded, unsure of what the boy wanted.

"Allah have mercy, you are terribly unlucky. More unlucky than me I think." He came further into the room, collapsing onto the bed nearest the door. "My name is Rauf El-Amin, and you are in my room."

Malik stared at him for a moment, wondering what he should make of that. "Is it mine as well?" He asked.

"I suppose so, if this is where they put you." Rauf gestured to the other beds. "Over there is Wassim, but they say he will die soon of fever, and where you're sitting is Altaïr."

Malik shot up from the straw, sucking in a breath. He was meant to share a room with that reckless, violently unpredictable wretch? He would have to start sleeping with one eye open, just as Yosef had, watching for daggers in the night. Was this another test?

"He and Wassim were always fighting about who would sleep nearest the window," Rauf drawled, either oblivious to Malik's distress or indifferent to it. "I never understood it myself. In the morning they have the sun in their eyes, and in the winter they are twice as cold."

When no answer was forthcoming, he studied Malik's face for a while, content to sit in silence. He seemed amiable enough for a stranger, and Malik had no one else to talk to.

"Have you seen my brother? He was with me on the caravan when we arrived. His name is Kadar."

"Master Umar was with other new boy when you were in the arena, and afterwards it was Master Ahmad who led him away."

"Led him away where?"

"I wouldn't know. Abbas is Master Ahmad's son, but you had better hope they're not together. Would you believe me if I told you Abbas was worse than Altaïr?" Rauf stifled a yawn and lay back against his cot. "It would be best if you waited here."

Malik shook his head, though Rauf wouldn't see it. Malik couldn't just wait around for his brother to show up, he was much too agitated. It wasn't that he felt worried about Kadar's safety; the Grand Master had said that Kadar was useful to them, and Malik had believed it. In truth, Kadar was the only reason Malik had agreed to venture this far north in the first place, and after today's ordeal, he could really use the reminder.

He got up and started towards the door, only to have Rauf slide forwards on his cot and block the way.

"Fine," the big-eared boy said, resignedly, "Will you agree to wait here if I go find your brother?" Malik opened his mouth to argue, but Rauf cut him off. "It doesn't much matter what you think, actually. I will have a much easier time finding him than you, and I don't look nearly as murderous."

Malik tried to lighten his expression, but Rauf only laughed. "Stay here. I'll return with your brother before the sun is down."

It took a little longer than that, but when Rauf returned with a teary-eyed Kadar in tow, Malik decided he really liked the big-eared boy.

Altaïr arrived long after sundown, and didn't make any comment about the sleeping arrangements. Kadar was already asleep on the bed nearest Rauf, the one that used to be Wassim's, and did not wake up at the noise. Rauf was snoring lightly, sprawled out on his stomach and feet dangling over the sides of the bed. Malik kept his back to Altaïr, determined not to make eye contact or acknowledge his presence. He didn't sleep at all that night, and in the morning it was clear Altaïr hadn't either.

At dawn the door to their room swung open with a bang. In the frame stood the largest man Malik had ever seen. He had hunching broad shoulders and a solid square jaw that seemed to unhinge itself when the man spoke.

"Altaïr! Rauf! What are you still doing in bed? Up, up!" He yelled, thumping a massive fist against the wall. As soon as the two boys were standing, he exited their room, and Malik could hear him repeating his commands in the chamber next to theirs. When he was gone Kadar got up from his bed and sat next to Malik, huddling close.

Malik looked questioningly to Rauf, who smiled back at him tiredly. "That is Labib, our training instructor. You'll get used to him soon enough."

Ten minutes later Labib returned, this time with a bundle of clothes beneath one arm. He threw them in Malik's direction a little harder than necessary. "Put them on," he said, "you and your brother will be joining us in the courtyard today."

XxXxX

**A/N:** This one was a bitch, but I am completely in love with Rauf, for no good reason, and I had to keep writing until his part arrived. With the exception of Yosef and Wassim (the-soon-to-be-dead), all characters mentioned are from the AC series. Feel free to look them up in the wikia for full details :)

**Nekokoa: **Thanks for another review; I'm happy you're still reading the story! I hope this chapter lived up to expectations.


	6. brothers and Brothers

Malik circled his prey slowly, eyes unwavering and breath coming evenly. He balanced his sword perfectly in his right hand, every once in a while allowing the blade to dip slightly, inviting an attack.

Suddenly his foe rushed forward, caving at long last to their game of cat and mouse. Malik saw the wild attack closing in on his head and blocked deftly, moving forwards into his enemy's arms and thrusting the butt of his sword beneath the other's chin. "Dead," he said.

Abbas swore, reeling. He dropped his sword to the ground and glared at Malik, rubbing his chin. "You got lucky!" He barked, "I've been training all day while you've been sitting around watching."

"Then I'm smarter _and_ better with a sword," Malik shot back.

Abbas spat out some blood clotting between his teeth, ignoring the jibe. He turned his back on Malik and made for one of the three exit gates to the arena.

There was some lazy applause as Malik jumped the short fence to the other side. Rauf stood waiting for him, looking bored but otherwise pleased. "As much as I enjoyed watching that, I should turn away from you right now. Abbas will see us talking and think we are good friends." Rauf made a horrified face. "Then what terrible trouble I will be in!"

Malik knew that Rauf was only teasing, but there was some truth to his words as well. He had learned quickly that being new in the arena meant having to fight more than the others, and that winning his fights would not gain him many friends. Abbas alone had demanded five rematches during Malik's first week in the fortress, and each time he was beaten he cursed harder and more elaborately than the last. Rauf and Kadar were Malik's only reprieve from the taunts and hazing he received in training, and he was always thankful at the end of the day to retire to the room he shared with them.

Altaïr had not shown up for training at all since Malik had fought him in the arena on his first day. He arrived diligently to their lessons in the library, and was present during lunch and dinner meals, but he was never in his bed when they woke up, and he would stay gone throughout the morning sparring matches.

"It's against the creed to harm a Brother," Rauf had explained, "Altaïr nearly put a knife through your throat, so Labib has banned him from the arena." Rauf had wiggled his enormous ears and touched a finger to his lips. "You are a mystery, Malik, to have made Altaïr so stupid in a fight."

Malik tried not to dwell on it. Even with Rauf's assurances that Altaïr was not truly dangerous, Malik didn't like sharing the room with him, and liked Kadar's proximity to the boy even less. Each night he went to sleep feeling uneasy, trying to keep himself awake until after everyone else was asleep.

"Abbas won't try anything outside the arena," Malik said, plopping down on the spectator's bench that ran the length of the training grounds, "and if he does I will just beat him again."

Rauf huffed. "Oh yes. I'm sure his revenge plan includes giving you fair warning in advance. He is too honorable to just piss in your porridge and be done with it."

Malik spied their combat instructor standing at the opposite end of the courtyard. He was busy teaching a group of female assassins how to maneuver around a mounted enemy. They were using a straw horse and man for practice, taking turns darting close, stabbing, and backing away again.

Malik hoped he wouldn't be noticed sitting in the shade. The sun was beating down on the stones of the fortress, and it was not yet midday; the worst had yet to come.

"When would he have time to piss in my food?"

"Perhaps he will take a cup with him to the latrine tonight, and fill it there for safekeeping. Tomorrow all he'll need to do is distract you while someone pours it in."

"Who do you suppose would do it for him. Jamal?"

Rauf scratched at an imaginary beard, closing his right eye in an imitation of their Grand Master. Malik laughed, even though it wasn't that funny. Rauf was being ridiculous on purpose, and the heat of the day was making them both foolish.

"What are you two talking about?" asked a nasally voice from behind them.

Malik didn't bother turning to identify the speaker; there were only a handful of assassins who cast such enormous shadows, and only one novice. Malik scooted over to make room on the bench for the newcomer, a massive boy named Irfan.

Their fellow novices had dubbed him Irfan The Mouse, more to annoy him than out of malice. The rolls of fat contained beneath his novice garbs made the name seem like an insult, but the root of it lay in his somewhat unnerving habit of always knowing what was going on in the fortress. The story was that he had made a pact with the mice living within the walls, listening to private conversations and reporting back to him.

"Abbas is planning on poisoning Malik with his piss," Rauf supplied.

Irfan seemed to contemplate this for a moment before replying. "I heard him speaking with Jamal yesterday." He turned to Malik with beady little eyes, his forehead slick with noonday sweat. "A bastard and a whoreson, he called you."

Rauf scoffed. "And nothing about me? I'm insulted."

"I believe you were referred to as the long-eared ass."

"You just made that up."

Irfan shrugged his lumbering shoulders and let out a long sigh. "Rauf, Rauf, are we not friends? I would never call you such names."

"Now I know you're lying. You called me a lackwit pus ball in front of Master Harash two days ago."

Irfan tittered. "I don't recall that."

Malik interrupted before Rauf could make another argument. Their bickering was tiresome enough as it was, but when it occurred across his lap in the middle of the day, it was unbearable.

"Shut up, both of you," he said, raising his hands in exasperation, "I don't care if Jamal and Abbas are sitting around calling me names; you two are much worse."

Rauf and Irfan regarded each other coldly.

"You should get to Abbas before he gets to you," Irfan grumbled.

Knowledgeable though he was, Irfan was a terrible coward in the arena. More often than not he would find some excuse to sneak away during lessons, or would blackmail the others into lightening their blows against him. It didn't surprise Malik that Irfan's idea of an appropriate response was to strike when the enemy had yet to even surface.

"You already have a plan," he said slowly. Malik guessed this was why Irfan had approached them in the first place.

Irfan smiled smugly. "As a matter of fact, I do."

They waited for him to continue, but he did not. "Are you going to tell us what it is?" Rauf asked, rolling his eyes.

Irfan raised one pudgy hand above their heads, pointing to the Eastern Tower. It was the thickest of the fortress' four corner buildings, dwarfing the other four and rising nearly as high as the Grand Master's tower. Midway up the stone façade there were a series of high vaulted windows overlooking the sharp cliff below.

A thin bridge of wood jutted out from each window, connecting the solid stone floor of their fortress to the open air of the sky.

"I would tell him that Malik has done a leap of faith, and that Al Mualim plans to send him on another mission with Master Umar as reward."

Malik frowned at him. _Another mission? Do the others think it was a mission that brought Kadar and me here?_ "Labib said that only sworn Brothers could perform the leap of faith."

Irfan clicked his tongue, annoyed. "That's why Abbas will be so ready to believe it, and that's why he will take the first opportunity to try it himself."

"He could die," Rauf observed.

"He could," Irfan agreed, "but he would certainly die if we were to remove the hay stacks below."

Malik looked away from the fat boy; it was disconcerting how easily Irfan spoke of such things.

"That's a foul joke, Irfan," said Rauf sharply.

"You think I'm joking?" Irfan looked at them pityingly, as though they were dimwitted children and could not understand a simple lesson. "Abbas would not annoy you anymore, and it would be easy to pile the hay back again afterward. Even if the Masters saw, they would have no way of recognizing the body. Or knowing it was us."

Rauf snorted. "Us? This is your vile plan."

"I am sharing it out of the goodness of my heart," Irfan countered.

Malik set his eyes back on the fat boy, disgusted by his quivering jaw and sweaty, sticky clothes. He could taste the rank smell of it and it made him want to vomit.

"Go away," he said.

"I know how much he seeks to make you suffer, Malik. You and your little brother."

"Go away, Irfan_._"

"Perhaps you just need some time to consider-"

Malik grabbed the front of Irfan's robe, standing abruptly and forcing the Mouse to his feet as well. The fat boy let out an ironic little squeak, but didn't bother fighting as Malik thrust their faces as close as possible. "_Be quiet_," he hissed, and shoved Irfan bodily to the ground.

Malik didn't bother looking behind him as he stormed off, confident that Irfan would remain on the ground until he was out of sight, and that Rauf would follow without needing to be told.

His hands were shaking, but he ignored them.

XxXxX

Malik ran his fingers across the spines of all the books on the fourth shelf. He had visited the fortress library only once before, on the insistence of his brother, and it had been an embarrassing affair. Malik could remember his letters and his words, but the pace at which he read was nothing compared to Kadar's, who had only just learned to read a few months ago.

At first it made him nervous. The other novices could all read, and he would not be able to catch up without drawing attention to himself. He considered asking Rauf for help, as he was the only one who could be trusted to keep his secret (or, more likely, not to care at all). But he need not have worried; his first lesson with the Scholars had proven just how interested his fellow novices were in reading the great texts of the library. Many of them needed to keep a finger on the page in order not to get lost in other thoughts. Most could not sit through the entire lesson at all.

A pair of large brown eyes peered out at him from between the shelves, and Malik jerked his hand away in surprise.

"Hello," said the girl airily.

Malik's eyebrows rose of their own accord. He hadn't noticed anyone else in the library aside from the Scholars. _She looks familiar,_ he thought, _but from where?_

"I've met your brother," she continued, "he's in here all the time looking at different books. I don't know if he understands the ones he reads, but he smiles and laughs through them all the same."

"Kadar," Malik said, unsure of what else to say.

The girl nodded. "Yes, I know. Everyone knows."

Malik suddenly remembered where he'd seen her before. "You're Altaïr's friend," he blurted, "I've seen you eat with him in the hay stacks outside the gates."

"Everyone knows that too," she was smiling at him, but there really wasn't anything to be smiling about. It made Malik uneasy. When he made no reply, she continued on as though it were customary to accost people in the library and make friends. "He told me you'd been given Wassim's bed, because the healers say he will die soon," her grin broadened, "Altaïr said he is hoping for Wassim's full recovery, so that he may be rid of you."

"He should pray for Wassim's full recovery regardless."

She laughed. "Pray? Altaïr would not pray if Allah himself descended and put a knife to his throat."

"Is he not a Muslim?"

"His mother was a Christian, born to a crusader knight's whore and left at our gates."

"And his father?" Malik could not explain why he was curious, or why this girl was so ready to give him answers.

"His father is an Assassin," she replied simply.

Malik considered this. The call to prayer rose from the village of Masyaf five times each day, but he had never seen any of his new Brothers show devotion. It had not occurred to him before now that anything was amiss; he himself had not knelt in prayer since the death of his parents.

The girl walked out from behind the shelf, revealing the rest of her body clad in a tidy variation of his novice uniform. "My name is Adha," she said, "you are rude not to have asked, but I forgive you."

Malik smiled at her for the first time. It was hard to imagine Altaïr spending time with this girl, who seemed clever enough to have figured out he was an arrogant cheat. He scrutinized her a little closer, hesitant to make assumptions. According to Rauf, there were very few female assassins in Masyaf. The Journeymen Brothers who were sent to recruit young children seldom returned with girls, and daughters born in the fortress were usually sent away to Alep, where they could study to be scribes and healers.

"Sorry," he said, feeling genuinely apologetic, "my name is Malik Al-Sayf."

Adha nodded and moved past him to a reading bench, and Malik noticed she had a book tucked into one hand. She paused before sitting down, looking at him expectantly. He glanced back at the shelf and pulled down a book, hurrying for no reason. He didn't bother checking to see what it was before he'd taken his seat beside Adha, and was vaguely horrified to see it was a field guide to gutting sheep.

"That's an interesting choice," Adha said amiably when she saw the cover, but seemed otherwise unfazed.

They read together for nearly an hour, with Malik eventually getting up to exchange his book for another, this time choosing more carefully. He found a dusty set of maps near the back of the library, the parchment crinkling as he pulled it slowly from it's place of rest.

He flipped through it for a while, not sure of what regions he was looking at most of the time, but enjoying the painstakingly detailed drawings. The maps were not a set, and many different artists had been working on its pages before it was bound and archived.

Malik could see the individual styles of each painter. Some pages were done clumsily, outlining only the main roads and leaving the alley's to trail off into nowhere. Others were deliberate, using impossibly straight lines and marking each individual shop and house. Another seemed more focused on the location of all the brothels in the city, while leaving other spots vague and unhelpful.

There was one artist whom Malik really liked, and he found himself rushing through the other pages in order to find more of the same. This artist was not simply marking the important locations on his maps, he was painting entire scenes. The lines were smooth and confident, the roads wound naturally through endless little box houses, mountains and valleys were painted in different colors, with grass and sand and dirt covering the pages. Most of all, the artist had painted in the people. Hundreds of tiny little figures dotted each page, populating the alleys and the markets and the docks by the sea.

"You've been staring at that page for a while."

Malik started, looking up from the map and into Adha's amused face. "Where is that?" she asked, pointing to the page.

Malik looked back down, reading the title across the top for the first time. "Haifa," he said, surprised.

"Oh, I've never heard of it," she turned back to her own book, "it's a beautiful picture though."

Malik stared at the page. _This is Haifa?_ There was no way this painting represented his home. His home had been dirty and smelly, dangerous and full of bad memories. The fish market hadn't been so close to the Mosque, and the rich district had houses twice the size of the city square. The painter had envisioned a blue-green sea, but Malik remembered it black. Endless and deadly, it crushed half the ships in the harbor and dragged the rest past the horizon. _This artist was a fool_, Malik decided, and closed the book with a snap.

XxXxX

The meal queue was moving at a snail's pace. Altaïr strained to see over the tops of the heads in front of him, fixing those Brothers in front with the deadliest glare he could muster. The Informant filling his bowl at the moment was taking his sweet time picking out more vegetables from the pot, getting his filthy fingers into everyone else's food and leaving none for the rest.

Altaïr folded his arms and glowered at the display. He could feel his insides twisting with hunger, and he could swear he heared his stomach growling in protest. _I'm going to die if they don't let me eat soon_, Altaïr thought, outraged.

Eventually the Informant moved away, and the next Brother in line advanced with barely contained enthusiasm. Luckily this one seemed hungrier than he was picky, and he moved aside quickly.

Slowly the line curved around the courtyard, and Altaïr tried to pick out the faces he knew. He spotted Rauf standing alone towards the end, and Irfan trying to sneak back in line for seconds (a failed attempt, and Labib dragged him out of sight to be punished), Malik was standing very near the pot with his giggling fool little brother.

Altaïr had decided not to form any opinion of the bastards. Malik had infuriated him at first, but aside from his skill with a blade, Malik was undeniably civilian. Every once in a while their eyes would meet, and Altaïr would feel the way he felt in the arena, when someone was about to take a swing at his gut. But the next moment their eyes would disconnect, and Malik would move away pointedly.

His brother Kadar was more difficult to ignore, always laughing or yelling or making some sort of ridiculous joke. But after his first couple of attempts at chatting with Altaïr proved fruitless, he gave up and started avoiding him like the rest.

Altaïr was still studying the two boys when he noticed Abbas and Jamal approaching them from behind. At first he felt a surge of annoyance, _are they just going to get in line in front of everyone else?_ But then he saw the way Jamal was walking, with quick deliberate steps and his shoulders hunched. Altaïr would recognize Jamal's terrible sneaking skills if he were standing on the other side of the wall.

Abbas and Jamal followed the brothers as they made their way outside the gates with their food, and Altaïr found himself trailing after them, his hunger forgotten. Abbas' pace quickened once they were out of sight of the instructors, Jamal close behind.

It happened very fast. Abbas swept in behind Malik and grabbed his elbow, jerking it sharply behind him. Malik's bowl went flying, spilling food on the dirt and tumbling away down the hill. Jamal was slower, and Kadar had enough time to turn around before Jamal snatched a fistful of his hair.

"I heard you took a leap of faith today, Malik," Abbas snarled, "or should I say Malika? You are skinny as a woman, and scheming like one too."

Malik used his other arm to jab at Abbas' stomach, but the other boy was stronger, and he wrapped an arm around Malik's throat to keep him in place, flushed back to chest.

"I was so disappointed when I heard. You performed such an amazing feat, but I didn't get to see it!"

Kadar was struggling wildly against Jamal's fingers, but the older boy was much taller than he was, and kept himself out of reach.

Altaïr took a step forward, then stopped. He stood away from them, unsure what this attack's purpose was. Abbas was being cruel, but he didn't seem to want to hurt Malik or his brother. _A leap of faith? I would have heard…_ He took another step, and stopped.

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to do it again."

That's when he saw what was happening. Abbas was moving slowly towards the cliff, pushing Malik ahead of him. His headlock had forced Malik to look skyward, and the boy hadn't noticed their path. They were only three paces from the drop, and every step forward sent a small cloud of dirt over the edge.

Another awkward lurch towards death and Altaïr was running towards them. He barely had time to slow down before hitting Abbas in the side, realizing at the last second that an attack from behind would send them all plunging over the cliff.

Abbas yelled in surprise and released Malik on instinct, whirling to face his attacker. Altaïr did his best to appear threatening, hoping that Abbas wouldn't notice he'd left his short blade behind. They regarded each other warily.

Malik had barely taken two breaths before stumbling towards Jamal, who was still clutching Kadar with a stupidly surprised expression across his face.

"Let go of him," Malik demanded, in what would probably have been a more threatening tone had it not come out in a strangled wheeze.

Jamal looked for a second as though he might argue, but a quick glance between Altaïr and Abbas made him think better of it. He released Kadar's hair and fled.

"Coward!" Abbas yelled after him, but there was a waver in his voice. Kadar wasn't much of a fighter, but it would still be three on one if he decided to engage them. Altaïr watched as uncertainty transformed to resignation on the boy's face.

Still, he jeered at Malik. "You'll regret coming here," he snarled, turning to Altaïr, "You chose this scum over a Brother?" he spat in the dirt, for good measure. Then followed Jamal inside.

Altaïr felt oddly tense once Abbas was gone. He spied Malik huddled over Kadar, speaking to his brother in a soothing tone. It seemed so innocent and out of place. Altaïr turned away from the scene, walking slowly back to the gates and trying not to think of it as fleeing.

XxXxX

That night, when the other boys had long since gone to sleep, Altaïr lay awake on his bed, thinking. The nights were still warm enough to leave the windows uncovered, and the moon hung low in the sky, filling the room with a pale light. The night air was cool against his skin, rustling his sheets and his hair with every breeze.

He shifted positions to get more comfortable, and was only marginally surprised to find Malik still awake as well. The boy was looking directly at him, a small frown creasing his brow.

Altaïr felt inexplicably flustered. But he refused to look away. _He's just some kid off the street_, he told himself, _I should not have gotten involved today._

"Thank you," Malik said, his voice deafening against the silence of the night.

Altaïr blinked. He had no idea what to do. Should he say something? Reciprocate in some way? Instead he turned around to face the window, hiding his treacherously burning face.

XxXxX

**A/N:** I am appalled (and a little impressed?) at Ubisoft's total failure in making unattractive characters for AC. The Assassins are all ridiculously good looking. So, in order to stop drawing parallels between Masyaf and Sodom, I've created Irfan: the impossibly fat and sneaky-as-shit novice. He is a plot device gone rogue. Luckily for you he is not going to be paired up with anyone; let's please avoid the cringe worthy OC pairings nobody likes to see crop in a perfectly good fan-story.

As this fic goes on I'm realizing more and more how much I'm enamored of the AC wiki. Seriously? I think I spend more time there than the people who write the articles.

**Reviews:**

**Lourdes: **Thank you for the review! I worry a lot about how fluid the story is, so it means a lot that the style appeals to you. **Galen Hithwen:** Thanks for the review! I'm glad I picked it up again too :) I'm planning for more reasonable updates from now on. **MysticDingo:** Thank you for both reviews :D I hope you liked this chapter as well, and I look forward to you sticking with me. **MaroManiac:** Haha thanks for the review! I'm glad you like it and promise to continue :)


	7. Ignorance is Bliss

Altaïr sat cross-legged on the cushions, shoulders hunched and hands stuffed beneath his thighs. His brow creased in frustration as he stared at the game board lying before him. He refused to look his opponent in the face. She was smiling, he knew, smugly and completely without remorse.

Altaïr reached out tentatively, fingers curling around one piece, then another.

"I wouldn't do that, if it were me."

He huffed and tucked his hand away again. "You said I would enjoy this," he whined.

Adha leaned back against her own cushion and looked out the window, content to wait. It was their fifth game of the day, and Altaïr had only won once. The room they were in was very old, an abandoned bedroom cradled in the South Tower. Neither knew whose quarters they had been; whoever they were they were dead and no one had bothered to trespass the area in many years.

Altaïr had discovered the room when he was seven, wandering the upper corridors because he knew it was not allowed. He hadn't been friends with Adha at the time, and the room had faded from his memory until he'd been placed with Rauf and Wassim. They were not intrusive roommates, if he were honest, but their constant presence grated on his nerves. Sometimes he needed to disappear.

Adha had approached him the day before with a game board and a handsome set of ivory pieces. She'd looked so happy about her discovery that Altaïr had agreed to sneak through the fortress with her and hear an explanation of how to play. Shatranj, it was called, and it involved a handful of tiles each with their own unique function. Adha was winning, but only because she kept remembering new rules partway through the game.

He grabbed an elephant piece and moved it forward. It accomplished nothing, but maybe she would be tricked into thinking he had a plan.

"Hmm," she said, when she saw what he'd done.

"Labib came to me today," he tried to distract her, "I can be back in the arena tomorrow if I agree to go unarmed."

"Unarmed?"

"Just the practice blades."

Adha laughed. "He worries that you'll try something, but he forgets you share a room with the boy you want to hurt."

"Labib is stupid," Altaïr agreed.

Adha moved her chariot tile deftly across the board.

"But why haven't you?"

"Why haven't I what?"

"Why haven't you hurt him, Malik I mean? Three months it's been since they arrived."

"I wouldn't kill him in his sleep," Altaïr groused, affronted.

"And when he's awake?"

Altaïr looked away to study the board. She'd placed her chariot too close to his horse, and in one move he could steal her most valuable offense.

"I'm glad," she said, before he had a chance to move, "that there hasn't been any more violence between you. I have spent time with Malik. He is similar to you sometimes."

Altaïr didn't answer. He didn't want to know about Adha spending time with Malik, the thought made him feel irritated for no reason.

"Though his little brother is much more amusing," she continued.

"I'm not similar to _him_ at all."

"No, you're not," she agreed, "he smiles and laughs and makes jokes about everything. You and he have nothing in common."

He took her chariot with his horse and placed it beside him. "I don't understand why you like them. What is it you speak about?"

"I don't know. What is it you and I speak about? Anything that interests us."

"Like what?"

Adha sighed. "Last time we spoke of his travels with your father, and before that we spoke of Yosef, and before that his dislike for the wool blankets."

Altaïr wondered how she knew it was Malik he was asking about, and not Kadar.

"And before that?"

"How much he likes Brother Rasheed."

"Rasheed is a Journeyman… How is it they know each other?" Rasheed was a young Brother whose unsightly rust-colored beard covered half his face.

"He was with your father when they were found. They would have spent some time together while traveling through Tripoli."

Altaïr nodded. He was surprised she hadn't mentioned the incident with Abbas and Jamal. Altaïr hadn't told her, and apparently neither had Malik. He considered mentioning it now, but the memories still made him feel anxious.

"He doesn't like the black wool blankets?" He asked instead.

"No. They're too itchy."

The temperature had been dropping in Masyaf for weeks, and would be getting much colder still. The fortress was nestled between the mountains and it was not uncommon for a thin layer of snow to fall during the winter months. The Brothers were allowed to lay roughspun blankets over their beds at night, but no other comfort against the cold was permitted.

Altaïr hadn't noticed Malik's discomfort. "He should have mentioned it, I would have shuttered our window at night."

Adha smiled and, using her own elephant tile, stole his horse and Shah.

"I win again," she said.

Altaïr frowned. _I was hardly paying attention and she was distracting me on purpose._ Distracting him with what though, he couldn't say. Malik was none of his concern.

"Scholar Nasir is giving a lesson on the creed today," Altaïr looked out the window, "I should leave or I'll miss it, and Labib will hear."

Adha didn't say anything as he left the room.

XxXxX

Altaïr slipped into the library as quietly as possible, putting on his most innocent expression. Scholar Nasir coughed laboriously into his thinning beard, his eyes settling on Altaïr for a moment before resuming his lecture.

"Despite our invaluable service to those who would otherwise suffer, the Assassins are feared by the general populace. This is due mainly to our method of ensuring peace…"

Altaïr let out a relieved breath. _The old man is going blind, or he would have punished me in front of everyone._ Scholar Nasir was a very old man, but he had an Assassin's reflexes and a Master's status. Altaïr had more than enough experience with his wrath and knew to avoid a conspicuous entrance.

As a result he only managed to take a preliminary glimpse of the room before he was forced to sit down, to his chagrin, directly behind Malik and Rauf.

Malik didn't turn to acknowledge Altaïr's entrance, but his back stiffened slightly as Altaïr took his seat. Rauf was draped across his own rug in a decidedly undignified way, eyes half closed.

"-ending the life of one individual will lead to the salvation of thousands," the old Scholar was saying. "We fight on behalf of those who do not possess the abilities, resources, or knowledge to speak out against those who abuse their power."

Altaïr tried to concentrate on Scholar Nasir's words, but his eyes kept sticking to the back of Malik's head. They hadn't spoken since that night in the room, when Malik had thanked Altaïr for saving him and his brother. Altaïr hadn't been sure if that made them friends, wasn't even sure if he was interested in being friends with the street boy. Eventually enough time had passed to make it all irrelevant; they'd fallen into an uncomfortable pattern of simply ignoring each other.

Scholar Nasir lurched uneasily to his desk, where he opened a small sheepskin book. It had worn edges and looked as though it had been submerged in water a few dozen times. He cleared his throat and began reading from the top of the first page. "_Laa shay'a waqi'un mutlaq bale kouloun mumkin._"

"Nothing is true, everything is permitted." Chorused the group automatically. Altaïr noticed that Malik had not so much as stuttered in his reply.

The old Scholar made them copy down several long passages of the Creed, peering over their shoulders and clicking his tongue every so often in disapproval. Altaïr had no patience for the wet, messy ink, and more often than not he would smear the ends of his sentences against the side of his hand. In his frustration he failed to notice Irfan getting up and wobbling towards him, depositing his monstrously round bottom on the rug to his right.

"Hello Altaïr," the fat boy greeted pleasantly.

Altaïr grunted in response, automatically suspicious.

"Those stink pots at the back were distracting me from my work, so I came over here to sit with you." When no answer was forthcoming, Irfan continued, undeterred. "You have wonderful calligraphy. I can never get mine to stay straight."

Altaïr looked over to see that Irfan's fat fingers could barely hold his quill. The boy's letters were awkwardly spaced and his passages were written on a slant.

There was no denying it; Altaïr _was_ better.

"Thank you," he replied at last, the edges of his stubborn dislike falling away.

"So, my friend, have you decided who you will be traveling with tomorrow?" Irfan was all smiles, his quill forgotten as he turned to face Altaïr completely. "Last time I was nearly bitten by a snake! And when Labib saw what had happened, he laughed."

Every few months Labib would round up the novices and take them on a long trek across the countryside. He called it survival training, as they were not allowed to bring any weapons or food from the fortress. The journeys could last several weeks at a time.

Altaïr glanced at Malik, who was bent studiously over his assignment, quill between his teeth and a look of deep concentration on his face.

"No one," he said, eyes dropping back to his own work.

Irfan made a sympathetic noise. "That's a shame. Perhaps we can travel together."

There was a loud crack as a wooden pointer fell down across Irfan's idle fingers. "Irfan!" Scholar Nasir admonished, and the rest of the novices stopped writing to watch. "Your lines are poor and yet you prattle on with Altaïr as though this lesson were beneath you. Shall I tell the cook to stop feeding you? Maybe then you'll find the will to concentrate!"

Laughter rippled through the room, but Malik was looking between them with something akin to confusion. It made Altaïr want to shove Irfan away. _I'm not friends with this fat boy. _He_ came to _me_!_

"Silence!" Scholar Nasir called sharply, and the last of the giggling died down.

It felt like hours before the lesson finished, and when they were finally allowed to leave Altaïr dashed out the door before anyone could follow. He had no desire to eat, so he ignored the dinner bell and headed straight for the novice quarters.

His father was waiting for him in the hallway to his room, arms folded and face stony. Altaïr considered sneaking away, but Umar had already spotted him, and no doubt he would get into trouble if he avoided a Master.

"Wassim is dead," his father said without preamble, "his things have been removed from your room."

Altaïr gulped back his surprise and blinked. Wassim had been frail and useless, but he'd been friendly enough. Adha had liked him, so Altaïr had gone easy in training. He tried to remember if Wassim had owned anything worth removing from their room.

"This news should not come as a surprise to you. The boy was sick for many months."

Altaïr nodded dumbly. A sword? A belt? Some coins maybe?

"I will leave you to your grief," his father said, already turning to leave.

When he entered the room, Rauf was already inside, sitting on Wassim's bed and holding something delicately in his palm. He looked up when Altaïr stood across from him, and moved over so the boy could sit.

"They left this behind," Rauf said, extending his hand so Altaïr could see what he was holding. It was a small wooden carving, hastily made and jagged on several sides.

"What is it?" Altaïr asked.

"I think it's a mule. Or a horse? This part looks like a mistake."

"It's a saddle," Altaïr said with confidence, and they both fell silent. Altaïr had no idea if Rauf had been friends with Wassim, but he assumed now would be a bad time to ask.

The door to their room swung open and Malik breezed through, pausing at the sight of them crouched together on his bed. Altaïr got up at his look, and moved to his own side of the room.

"Where is Kadar?" Rauf asked, ignoring Altaïr's behavior.

"Still in the courtyard eating with the younger novices," Malik looked suspiciously been the two of them. "Has something happened?"

Rauf turned the carving over in his hands a couple times. "Wassim, the boy who used to live here with us, he's died."

Malik stood still by the door, and Altaïr could see the question in his eyes.

"I suppose this bed is yours now," Rauf said, "yours to keep."

XxXxX

Malik stared out across the open road, shielding his eyes from the glare or the sun. It was colder today than it had been the day before, but still the sun was blinding. At least they were no longer in the mountains, where the nights brought chills into their beds.

Malik awoke three days before to the news of his first mission, which Rauf had generously explained was more of an exercise than anything deadly. It had been a small comfort when the details were finally revealed. The older novices were to travel West towards Laodicea, and they weren't going to be given any supplies. Labib would be going with them, but only as an escort should they get lost. Food and shelter were their own problem.

The journey had been exciting when they were still within sight of Masyaf, the town bustling and alive with activity (the townsfolk had ignored the children, accustomed as they were to their Assassin defenders). But slowly the signs of life had petered out, and none but their own small band of Brothers were visible in any given direction.

Rauf kicked at the stones hidden in the dirt, sending several flying into the air. "We should stay off the road, Malik," he said, in a tone that implied an understanding of these things.

They'd been taught to stay out of wide-open areas, where it would be difficult to slip out of sight, but Malik ignored Rauf's advice and walked further away. "No one is around. Why is that? These roads should be busy."

Rauf shrugged. "I don't know, Malik. Perhaps they all decided to stay home today."

An errant cloud floated across the sun's path, and the world grew dark for a few moments. Malik's stomach rumbled plaintively, as it had been intermittently all day. He turned back at a particularly painful lurch, returning to where Rauf waited.

"Why are you so curious about this?" Rauf asked, "An empty road is better for us than one full of travelers."

"It's not the travelers I'm worried about. Where are the caravans? Albara lies to the East and Laodicea is on the sea. There should be merchants traveling between them and beggars waiting for scraps. I see neither."

"Those dusty old maps have muddled your brain," Rauf said, "Never mind the sense of it. I want to eat, let's find a spot out of the sun."

They'd managed to steal some food from the stalls in Masyaf, gathering enough between them to last several days. Malik had been nervous at first, remembering the last time he'd tried to steal his dinner and Kadar had nearly lost a hand. Yosef was no longer around to protect him, and the thought made him feel lonely, even with Rauf standing a few yards away, urging him on. In the end he needn't have worried; the merchants of Masyaf turned a blind eye to the little thieves.

Rauf pointed to a cluster of bushes and they made their way towards it in companionable silence. They split a loaf of stale bread and took turns biting into a plum. The juices felt delicious against his tongue, and Malik made sure to keep each bite in his mouth for as long as possible. The cloud above had passed and the ground outside their little circle of shade seemed far too bright. Rauf made no move to get up and Malik was grateful for the reprieve.

An hour passed before they spotted any movement on the road. Malik stared out into the distance, trying to recognize the figure before they got too close. He was surprised to see Altaïr trudging along, alone, eyes casting around as though searching for something.

"Is that Altaïr?" Rauf asked, squinting.

Malik nodded mutely. A glimmer caught his eye, emanating from Altaïr's hand. "He brought a blade with him, look, you can see it sticking out of his sleeve."

"He'll more likely blind someone with its reflection before he manages to get it out for an attack."

Altaïr stopped walking then, nearly in line with their hiding spot. _It's not a hiding spot, just a place to eat_ Malik's mind corrected, indignant that he would ever have to hide from Altaïr.

"Should we go to him?" It was odd, but there was a note in Rauf's voice that let Malik know he wasn't alone in his mistrust of the other boy.

He was about to say yes, if for no other reason than to prove how little he cared, when he remembered seeing Altaïr and Irfan speaking casually in the library. Irfan had been leaning towards Altaïr conspiratorially; their conversation was in whispers.

"No," Malik said, with perhaps more force than was necessary. Rauf gave him a questioning look, but stayed silent.

They waited for Altaïr to pass ahead of them, then continued on their way. It was important that they find shelter before nightfall, else they would be huddled together against the blustering winds that the barren lands invited.

Rauf spotted their destination first. It was difficult to see details from a distance, but there was no mistaking the steady rise of stone buildings or the way the road widened and split off ahead. It wasn't long before the salty smell of the sea was upon them, and Malik could feel his heart pounding against his ribs. Memories of Haifa surfaced unbidden to his mind, making his stomach roil in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.

As they drew closer to the city gates it became clear something was amiss, it was much too quiet. There was no doubt in Malik's mind that this was Laodicea, it was the only city on the water for miles, and he had been careful to study these routes in case he needed to flee with Kadar.

But there were no guards to greet them on the main road, and there were none stationed at the entrance to the city. The gate itself stood open, one half swinging outwards at an angle and the other discarded on the ground. Rauf frowned at the sight, and that in itself was enough to make anyone worried.

Inside was worse. The buildings that they'd seen growing from the horizon proved to be singular entities in a vast landscape of wreckage. Here and there a wall was still standing, erect and strong in isolation, but mostly the houses and shops lay in ruins. They wandered in silence through the streets, slowly and with wide eyes. Malik had seen the skeletal remains of buildings before, one in particular after a terrible fire. But that was only one house. These were many hundreds, all of them reduced to rubble.

"I don't like this," Rauf said, voice barely above a whisper.

Malik didn't either, but didn't want to say so. "What do you think happened?" he asked.

"An attack maybe. Labib said this was a city under the Christian King…"

Malik shook his head. He'd seen raids in Haifa, and later along the road with Yosef, but he'd never seen destruction such as this. He approached one of the buildings, sidestepping the rocks in his path and placing his feet as gingerly as possible. Tentatively, he reached out a hand and rolled a large stone away from the entrance to what must have been a family home, and peeked inside. Immediately his body recoiled, and he had to raise a hand to his mouth to keep from crying out.

There were three bodies in the house, all of them rotten and stinking. One was a man with his clothes in tatters, his arms clutching a woman with her legs pinned under a collapsed wall. The third was a child, with a stone boulder above the shoulders where a head should be.

Rauf ran up behind him and looked over his shoulder. "_Yela'an_!" He swore loudly, his voice breaking through the solid still of the city.

Malik pushed away from the house and back towards the street, gulping at the fresh air and clutching his sides. He'd looked into their faces and into the sockets that used to be their eyes, and now he couldn't wipe the image from his mind. Desperate to put some distance between himself and the corpses, Malik staggered on through the streets aimlessly. He didn't stop until the path ended, cut short abruptly by an enormous crack in the road.

"Allah, I don't believe it," Rauf said from behind. Malik hadn't realized the boy had been following, but he was relived not to be alone.

"What does it mean?"

"Nasir told us about them once. The ground shakes and swallows people, sometimes many times in one place." Rauf backed away almost imperceptibly, his eyes never leaving the jagged scar before them. "He said Masyaf is safe from such things. Al Mualim protects us."

They circumvented the cracked earth warily and continued on their way until the destruction was less chaotic. On the outskirts the houses were spaced further apart, and some of the structures still had roofs.

"Come, we should get some sleep," Rauf said, beckoning for Malik to follow him. When Malik didn't answer, Rauf took him gently by the arm and guided him into a house with only minimal damage. He arranged some rugs into a far corner and sat them down with their backs to the wall. There was no longer any door to close, and one of the four walls was leaning precariously into the room. Not the best place to sleep in, but at least there weren't any bodies.

Malik refused the food Rauf offered, knowing that anything he ate would not stay settled for very long. He curled in on himself and closed his eyes, determined to crush the memories of the day with sleep.

XxXxX

_Oh sweet tearful son of mine,  
At once so naughty and yet divine,  
Close those two eyes nice and tight,  
So I might have some sleep tonight._

_A crow sways slightly in the breeze, weaving its way through the currents of the sky. It dives sharply towards the earth, towards a city. The crow has brothers who call him to a feast. The flesh of hundreds lay in wait. He aims for a body that's barely been touched, but, woefully, one of his brothers has already gotten to the eyes._

XxXxX

Malik jerked awake, his arms and legs seizing around him as though he'd been kicked. His breath was coming in harsh gasps, sounding like thunder in his ears. He couldn't see his surroundings, blind as he was in the unexpected dark of the night.

Slowly he calmed down and his breathing evened out. It would be impossible to get back to sleep, he knew, so he sat up with his back propped against the cool stone wall of the house. Eventually his eyes adjusted and he could see Rauf sleeping peacefully only a few feet away.

He trained his eyes to the doorway, where moonlight pooled through and lit up the world outside. Malik frowned at the sight of something on the doorstep, he didn't remember seeing anything there on the way inside. Malik knelt onto his hands and knees, inching forwards to get a better look. Eventually he managed to make out the shape of a body, a young body, curled in on itself asleep. Another inch forward and Malik caught the sharp glare of moonlight reflecting off of steel.

Malik slumped back down into a sitting position, relieved. It was only Altaïr.

XxXxX

**A/N:** This chapter whored itself out to so many different plot twists, and I very nearly allowed it to take advantage of the situation and continue for several more pages. In any case, Happy Revelations Release Day everyone :)

I have a somewhat Important Update to make, so please read this next bit. I know that some of my readers haven't ever played the AC games (fandom is contagious that way), and probably never will. It's therefore important that I stress how _canon_ this story is supposed to be (with obvious romantic diversions), and that Revelations has a lot of Altaïr's story in it. I won't be putting spoiler warnings, so this is all you're gonna get!

**Reviews: **

**HumanElement:** I know, Irfan is a pretty dirty guy. Necessary though! Thanks for the review :) **Lourde:** Thank you for the review! I agree that Altaïr is very cute at this age, but only because he tries so hard _not_ to be :P **Galen Hithwen: **Thank you for the review! I hope you liked this chapter as much as the others :) **Yun-Ah:** I'm so glad you picked up on that. For me one of the most annoying things about AltMal is that fans are always assuming Malik is this coy bookworm with nothing to do. He's an assassin dang-nabit! You can be sure that bad things will continue to happen in this fic :( But! Not without some wonderful lovely bits as well. Thank you so much for the review! **BunnyNeko:** Ho-gosh full sentences and big words! I'm glad I got to update this right after your review, makes me feel like I'm _getting shit done round here_. Thanks for your lovely comments and I hope you keep reading :)


	8. Crisp Sea Air

**Ruined City of Laodicea…**

Altaïr was gone when Malik next awoke.

The sun had barely risen above the horizon, and the abandoned city was bathed in early morning light. Malik took his time stretching and relieving himself, knowing full well that the next time they would have a chance to rest would be with the rest of the novices. Labib had led them to their destination, though he had paid little attention to their whereabouts while on the road. Malik had no idea how many of the others had made it this far.

When he could no longer ignore the gnawing hunger in his stomach, Malik shook Rauf's sleeping form. "Wake up," he said, speaking quietly despite their isolation. "We need to eat and move on."

Rauf grumbled and yawned. "How long have you been awake?"

"An hour, maybe two."

"That long?" Rauf squinted at him. "I didn't hear anything."

Malik rolled his eyes and started to unpack their remaining food. "The earth could have shifted again and you wouldn't have woken."

"A talent I value enormously."

They split what remained of the bread and left the house, meandering along in silence. Neither of them approached the other dwellings, instinctively unsettled and suspicious. It didn't take them long to reach the coast, and Rauf let out a low whistle when the docks came into view. It was clear that the place had not seen traders for many weeks, harsh waves thrust up against the pier, throwing seaweed and sand until the wooden planks were barely visible. Malik knew this sort of weather. It was the kind that sent fishermen home empty-handed and soaking, or not at all.

"No ships…" Rauf said. "They see from a distance that the city no longer stands and assume there's been an attack."

Malik nodded stiffly. He realized with sudden clarity that he hated this place. Absolutely and with an urgency that he did not particularly wish to diagnose. _It's a tomb,_ his mind provided, _this is what death looks like when there's no one left to remember._

Rauf didn't appear to have noticed his friend's change in mood. "There they are," he motioned towards their right, where a small band of white clothed youths stood around a much taller man dressed in the same. "Do you think they've spotted us yet?"

"No," Malik said, and he knew what Rauf would suggest next. "But they will come searching if we avoid them."

"Irfan would be happy to provide some tale of our demise."

Malik snorted.

"And Labib would surely believe it, no matter the source. We're a burden to him! The goat."

Malik's mouth twitched. "Irfan would make it something embarrassing."

"Perhaps he sat on us and we suffocated."

"He would say we were kissing his bottom when it happened."

Rauf grinned, and Malik grinned right back. He hitched their pack higher on his shoulder. "We had better get moving then; our imagination is not quite so terrible as his."

It didn't take long for Labib to spot them, and Malik wasn't sure if it was relief or annoyance that passed over the assassin's face at their arrival. Probably annoyance, Malik reasoned, for as soon as they reached the group it was clear they were the last to join. Labib barked at the novices to remain together, and marched them towards the pier.

Malik allowed his gaze to wander over his Brothers' appearances. Their robes were all dirty, more brown than white at this point, as were their faces and hands. As they crossed the pier, little flecks of water splashed up and touched their skin, leaving streaks of mud down tired arms and wary faces. Malik spotted Altaïr towards the front of the group, glaring anxiously into the sea. Now that he looked, Altaïr wasn't the only nervous one; the pier was wide enough for six of them to walk abreast, yet most were moving in single-file and keeping to the middle.

Malik was struck by an odd thought. "Can you swim?" He asked Rauf, feeling stupid.

"No," Rauf mumbled, and Malik glanced his way. Rauf was keeping pace beside him, but his shoulders were hunched and his eyes were glued to the swirling water.

"Can _any_ of you swim?"

Rauf lifted his eyes long enough to give him a dirty look. "Well I assume you can. That makes one of us at least."

"It's easy," Malik said, trying for encouragement and failing. "Just don't panic."

Rauf huffed. He glanced towards the front of their group and stopped suddenly, eyes widening in horror. Malik looked up sharply, just in time to see Labib grab Altaïr beneath the arms and throw him into the water. Altaïr sank like a stone, head disappearing completely beneath the raging waves.

The novices nearest Labib were frozen in shock, unable to react until Labib had tossed two, three, four more into the sea. By then some of the children were backing away, or slipping into the water voluntarily to ensure they could keep a grip on the pier.

Malik saw Rauf take a half-step back out of the corner of his eye. He turned to his friend, seeking to reassure him. They could stick together; Malik would make sure Rauf didn't drown.

"We should get in," he started, "before he has a chance to-"

But Rauf wasn't listening. "Altaïr hasn't come up yet," his voice was quiet and laced with terror.

Malik's head snapped back to the place Altaïr had disappeared, then around to the other novices. Altaïr wasn't anywhere. _The sword,_ Malik thought, stomach dropping, _the fool brought steel, and now it's dragging him down._

He heard Rauf call after him, and he hadn't even realized he was running until he was halfway through air, bracing for impact. The cold water swept up and engulfed him, cutting him off from the world completely. For a moment he hung still, arms and legs suspended around him under the sudden pressure. Then he was moving.

He was dimly aware of the salt water burning his eyes and forcing its way up his nose. He could hear the indistinct underwater popping noises that meant movement nearby, and he surfaced briefly to orient himself. There was a blotch of white beneath the waves behind him, fading steadily.

Malik dove, aiming blindly with arms outstretched. For a moment he feared he'd missed his target, but in the next second his fingers brushed against something unmistakably cloth-like, and he gripped it as tightly as he could. It occurred to him that he didn't have time to find Altaïr's sword, if there was only one to begin with. With what little strength he could muster, Malik tore at Altaïr's robes with both hands, freeing the sash then his arms. The heavy robes fell away and Malik caught a glimpse of steel hidden inside one of the sleeves before the whole thing sank out of view.

They rose quickly, though Altaïr was a dead weight and Malik had barely enough air left. He could feel his lungs starting to clench, and desperation clawed at his brain at the sight of light dancing along the surface. They would make it, he knew, but he couldn't reason away the fear that made his legs kick harder or his arm grip tighter around Altaïr's middle.

They broke the surface and the slap of cold air was the best thing Malik had ever known. He dragged them back towards the pier, gripping the slimy wood with his fingers. A pair of hands appeared above them to grab at Altaïr's arms, heaving him up and out of the water. Malik didn't wait for help, he knew he was the only one who knew what to do when someone tried to breath underwater. He scrambled up beside Altaïr, realizing belatedly that it was Rauf who'd helped them, and rolled the boy onto his back. He heard Rauf yelp when Malik began pounding on Altaïr's bare chest, but he didn't interfere. Rauf probably thought Altaïr was dead.

The thought had barely crossed his mind when Altaïr let out a shuddering cough, throwing up the water in his lungs and curling in on himself. Malik thumped him on the back a few times, helping him expel what was left. It wasn't until Altaïr opened his eyes and looked up at him that Malik allowed himself to slump down fully, relief washing over him.

"You're a fool," he croaked.

Altaïr just stared at him, and the intensity of it made Malik look away. Labib was chasing someone down the pier, Irfan by the look of it, and they were nearly back to shore. Most of the novices were pulling themselves out, eyes red and bodies shaking. Abbas was spluttering and coughing, seaweed stuck in his hair. A novice whose name Malik couldn't remember was clinging so hard at the wood that gashes were appearing on his skin where mussels protruded unforgivingly beneath his fingers.

"Here," Rauf's voice was shaking as he held out his outer robe for Altaïr. Rauf and the robe were still perfectly dry.

Altaïr accepted it without comment, wrapping it around himself without putting it on.

"You should get in the water," Malik said to Rauf. "Labib will throw you in if you don't."

Rauf cast a wary glance at the sea, then to Altaïr. Malik knew without having to ask that there was absolutely no chance of Rauf getting in the water voluntarily. Not after what happened.

Malik sighed. "Stay close. Altaïr, you should back away from the side."

He didn't wait for an answer, standing up and jumping back into the sea before he could talk himself out of it. He swam out a few feet from the pier before turning around, treading water to stay in place.

Rauf was looking on curiously, while Altaïr continued to stare with the same intense expression he'd had earlier.

Quickly, before either of them had time to react, Malik pushed up onto his back and started kicking water as violently as he could in their direction. He heard the telltale cry of indignation, and knew he'd hit his intended target.

He might have dragged it out a little longer than was strictly necessary.

When he made it back onto the pier he had to stifle a laugh at the look of pure hatred that Rauf threw him. His normally wispy black hair was glued to the sides of his face, ears even more pronounced than usual.

"You could have warned me!" Rauf glared at him, then shot a look at Altaïr as though the two of them had been in on it together. "Don't smile!"

It was too late, Altaïr was already grinning broadly at him, wagging his eyebrows. Malik noticed that Altaïr had taken his advice and was standing apart, clinging to Rauf's robe and still partially dry.

"You look like a bat."

Rauf clapped his hands over his ears. "I do not!"

"A very wet and miserable bat."

"This is all your fault!"

"I'm not the one who refused to get in the water."

"No, you're the one who was nearly killed by his own steel."

"That's not-"

Malik burst out laughing, and Altaïr stopped mid-sentence to stare wide-eyed at him. Rauf lowered his hands to fix Malik without another glare, though there was no strength behind it and his expression lightened.

Malik could barely breath. He had no idea why he was laughing so hard, but for whatever reason he just couldn't stop. Altaïr's expression wasn't helping any. By the time Labib reappeared, red-faced and scowling, he'd managed to calm himself down to the odd snort of amusement.

"You three seem to be enjoying yourselves. Would you like to go back in?"

Altaïr visibly stiffened and Malik sobered immediately. "No," he said, bowing his head.

"Good," Labib quipped, appeased. "Now move, we're finished here."

He began to round up the rest of the novices, and they followed him eagerly when he turned to head back towards the shore.

"Do you know why we're here?" He asked, and it took them a moment to realize he was expecting an answer.

"To learn how to swim?" Someone called out.

Labib smacked the novice who'd spoken on the back of the head. "Don't be stupid. You don't need to know how to swim, you need to know that you _can't_."

Malik frowned.

"The men who lived here would spend all their days at sea, going from one place to another in their big ships. Sometimes they would come back with fish, sometimes with gems, sometimes with soldiers from distant lands. These men held no loyalties, do you understand? They had no home like the home Al Mualim has given us, and you can see what horror befell their city." He spread his arms out to encompass the ruins of Laodicea.

The logic was so obviously flawed and Malik waited for the inevitable argument. He looked around at their band of soaking and miserable Brothers; pointedly at Altaïr, sure that if any of them was going to speak up, it would be him. But even Altaïr had his head downcast, borrowed robes wrapped more tightly around himself than before.

"Our place is in Masyaf, our lives belong to the Order. There is nothing for you beyond these waters."

Malik opened his mouth to speak when he felt a nudge at his side. Rauf didn't look at him, but his eyes were wide and he shook his head once. The message was clear, and Malik kept silent.

XxXxX

Altaïr stayed with them that night. At first he hesitated, as Rauf and Malik settled down in the same house they'd stayed in the night before, standing in the doorway uncertainly. He still had Rauf's robes, and the night air was cooling quickly against the stones.

Malik didn't understand his indecision. They'd shared the same room in the fortress for half the year already, and none of them had woken up with so much as a flea hidden under the covers. It seemed unlikely that Altaïr was planning to slit his throat in the middle of the night, and even more unlikely that Altaïr would worry about such a thing himself.

This awkward, shuffling, hesitant Altaïr was new to him, and Malik found it deeply unsettling.

"I will take the first watch," Malik announced. "Altaïr, you can take the next one. Rauf is that alright?"

Rauf grunted in reply, already curling up on the floor with his back to the door.

"Altaïr?"

Altaïr was giving him that odd look again, but it disappeared quickly behind a smile and a nod. He entered the room tentatively and lay down against the wall on Malik's other side.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the shadows in the room sharpen and elongate with the passage of the moon. Malik took note of Rauf's breathing, unconsciously taking note of exactly when the other boy fell asleep.

"Are we even now?" Altaïr asked, and Malik tried not to be offended that he hadn't known Altaïr was still awake.

"Even?" He replied in a whisper.

"You pulled me out of the water. I assume it was in return for what Abbas tried to do."

_Oh._

"Oh," he said. That explained a lot. Did Altaïr really consider this a matter of trade? The possibility seemed more and more likely once he started to pick apart Altaïr's behavior up until that point. "We're not even," Malik added gruffly. "We're friends."

Altaïr didn't answer, but his body stilled against the ground. When the time came for Malik to pass on the watch, Altaïr awoke with a jolt from a dead sleep.

It wasn't until noon the following day that Malik realized he'd passed the night without a single bad dream. He'd risen with the sun to find Rauf sitting in the doorway, hunched over a pile of rubble that he was stacking with painstaking precision as high as they would go. Altaïr was gone, and Malik tried not to feel disappointed.

"Have the others left yet?" Malik asked, voice rough from sleep.

"No," Rauf said over his shoulder. "But Labib is gone. Altaïr saw him leave during the night."

"Leave?"

"He went North."

"And no one followed?"

Rauf sighed, pushing over his little tower absently and starting over. "I don't know these things, Malik. If you wait for Altaïr to return you can ask him."

It was as though some signal had gone off, because a moment later a rather large sack was dropped at Malik's feet, followed shortly by Altaïr himself. Malik looked up toward the remains of their roof, wondering how long Altaïr had been sitting up there listening in.

"Here," Altaïr called to Rauf, throwing a rumpled ball of white robes at his head. "I've got something else to wear."

"Did you get any food?" Rauf asked.

Altaïr didn't look at him, just opened up his sack and rooted through it until he found a small black tunic. He pulled it over his head and tied the rope belt around his middle. It was very loose.

"Yes," Altaïr said. He upended the remainder of the sack and six loaves of bread came tumbling out. Warm, fresh bread.

"Where did you get these?" Malik blurted out.

Altaïr shook out his treasure trove and several oranges fell on top of the bread. "I went after Labib," he replied simply.

"And?"

Altaïr shrugged. "His trail disappeared after a mile. There was a cart abandoned on the road, but the horses had been cut loose and the merchandise was still inside." He pointed to the food. "This was all that was left."

Malik picked up one of the loaves. It was rye, his favorite, and when he bit into it there were nuts baked inside.

"I knew he was a goat," Rauf complained. "He's probably gone off to get drunk."

"Does he expect us to wait here?" Malik asked, not really expecting an answer.

"What does that matter," Altaïr said. "We should start heading back to Masyaf."

"Do you remember the way?" Rauf took an orange from the pile and inspected it carefully before peeling.

"Of course I remember the way!"

Malik and Rauf exchanged glances.

"Before we reached this city, there was nothing along the road for three days," Malik reminded him. "We won't be certain of our path until we reach the Orontes. It was the last landmark."

"_I_ will be certain."

"How?"

"I just will!"

Malik scowled in annoyance. It was pointless, he knew; Altaïr was impossible to reason with once backed into a corner, but his defensive attitude and limitless pride was going to get them killed.

"Alright," Malik said, trying a different tactic. "Let's eat first then scout the area. Labib may have left us a message."

He was wrong of course. They finished eating and began their search, interrupted every so often by some of the other novices, confused and bleary eyed in the early morning. None of them knew where Labib had spent the night, or that he'd left them alone with no further instructions.

They were about to give up when Malik noticed someone making their way towards them from the road. A small white speck in a sea of dusty brown. He squinted at the figure for a long time before he made out what it was, recognizing the grey shoulder cowl and bushy red beard.

"Rasheed!" He cried, though there was no way the man would hear him.

Altaïr looked up at him sharply, then out to where Malik was staring. "The Journeyman?" He grumbled. "Why would he be out here?"

Malik had no idea, but he knew they wouldn't have to worry anymore about how to get back to the fortress. He hadn't realized how nervous he was until the pressure lifted.

"Do you think he's come for us?" Rauf asked, shading his eyes to see better.

"Yes," Malik said, suddenly sure. "He's come to lead us back home."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Rauf slipped passed them. "I am sick of this place, and these soggy clothes. The sooner we get back to Masyaf the better."

Malik followed his friend out onto the road, aware of Altaïr's less than eager pursuit. He'd seen how disrespectful Altaïr could be towards their superiors, but blatant distrust? Malik shrugged it off. If he was going to start trying to understand the nuances of Altaïr's convictions, he might as well roll a dice for all the luck he'd have.

"He was in the group that brought you to Masyaf, wasn't he?" Altaïr inquired from behind.

"With your father, yes."

Altaïr huffed, as though the reminder was unwelcome. "And you trust him?"

Malik absolutely did not smile. "Yes," he said.

It turned out Rasheed had been assigned with their retrieval since the beginning. The novices were supposed to already know this, but due to a distinct lack of communication between Labib and his charges, nobody had been told. Rasheed did not seem surprised in the slightest, and Malik was reminded of Rauf's comments of how little their combat instructor cared about their well-being. It was a joke at the time, but now it seemed prudent to keep that information in mind.

_Labib is a Sworn Brother to the Order, but none of us have taken the oath yet. We are nothing until we've proven ourselves. Expendable if we don't show devotion._

Malik strained to memorize every landmark as they wound their way through the streets and hollow houses. If these laws of loyalty and blood rites proved too much, he could make his way back to this ruined city. The sea was something he understood, and he could cross the water if it came to it.

But Kadar had never learned to swim, he'd been too young in Haifa and Malik had been too afraid to teach him. There was no way Kadar could cross the sea, he was just as stuck as the rest of them.

"You have a very serious expression on your face," Rauf remarked from beside him. "What are you thinking so hard about?"

"My brother," Malik said without thinking.

He was taken aback by Altaïr's sudden grin.

"Which one?" Rauf asked, laughing.

**END of PART ONE**

XxXxX

**A/N: And thus ends Part One of this story, the next chapter will pick up when they're a bit older. Goodbye subtle boy-fascinations; Hello adolescent-trainwreck emotions!**

**Reviews:**

**Coconuthero: **Thank you so much for the review :) I'm glad you jumped on board too! I hope the wonky update schedule doesn't put you off haha. **HumanElement: **Oh man thank you so much. The imagery is especially important to me so I'm touched that you said that about the last chapter. I hope this one lives up to expectations :) **Merrylittlemisfit:** Haha yeah I'm trying to keep the ages a little vague at this point in the story. Everyone has different ideas of how kids should act, and my understanding of life in the 12th century is that you grow up pretty damn fast! (In answer to your question, Malik/Altaïr/Rauf and co are 11, Kadar is 8). Thanks so much for your review :) I hope you keep reading! **Blahdeedah:** I'm dedicating this chapter to you because I never thought I'd be getting full paragraphs and words of support from my readers. Your words are like food for me, I can't even tell you! When I read it I was sick with a headcold, and it made me feel so much better. Good lord sorry this wasn't supposed to be a love-letter. In any case, thank you for motivating me when I really needed it, and you should know that this chapter made it through the grinder because of you.

**I have the most amazing readers. I know my writing style is pretty slow, and that most people don't have the patience for a story that starts with kids. I can't thank you guys enough. Onwards!**


	9. PART TWO: Baptism

**PART TWO**

**Church of St. Symeon – 1181 A.D.**

The cavernous interior of the great hall made it easy for them to slip unnoticed through the high windows. Once inside they had to balance on the heads of angelic moldings which hung sentry on the walls, tiptoeing a dance that nobody below would see. They leaped from a crumbling stone face to the wooden beams above, swinging with calculated ease onto the best possible spot for observing all inside.

Altaïr got there first. Predictably.

"That last jump was unnecessary," Malik huffed, coming up beside him.

Altaïr shifted to allow Malik more space, but otherwise made no reply. He was embarrassingly out of breath from the steep climb up the exterior, and he knew speaking would give him away. For a few minutes all he could think of was the telling pattern of his own breathing, as the narrow beam forced them to sit with their sides pressed together.

The old church was ostentatious. By far the largest building in the area, its highest tower reached straight up into the sky and seemed to continue on forever. Altaïr was glad they hadn't had to climb all the way to the top, though the vantage point would have certainly allowed him a better view of the city. The stone arches that surrounded the naves and outer corridors were smooth and supported by thick pillars. He could tell just by looking that they would be impossible to scale should the situation sour.

Their target had entered through a side door, but he was not among the small group of people congregated at the altar. Altaïr caught sight of an infant in white wrappings, held tenderly to a woman's breast. Two men stood behind her, and all three stood before a priest. Between them was a small pool of water, glittering in an elevated stone basin.

"_Ego te baptizo in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,"_ intoned the priest, lifting a handful of water and dribbling it over the infant's head.

Most of it dripped back into the basin and the rippling surface sent soft rays of light across young hopeful faces.

"Where is he?" Malik asked quietly, scanning the aisles.

Altaïr dragged his attention away from the family. They were on a mission together, not for the first time, and Altaïr didn't intend to let Malik do most of the work.

"Look, there, he's sitting in the last row." Altaïr pointed even though he knew Malik didn't need any assistance. "I hope his intention isn't to stay here all day."

"It will be better for us if he chooses to leave after dark."

"Better, but I will be bored in the mean time."

Malik rolled his eyes and dropped his feet from their beam. His legs swung unperturbed through the open air, and Altaïr wondered, not for the first time, why Malik always seemed the most relaxed when he was pretending to be annoyed.

They listened to the rest of the service in silence. Thankfully the priest did not continue in Latin, as Altaïr didn't understand a word of it and he knew Malik was fluent. It was a useless language and the only time Altaïr wished he'd had the patience to learn was when it was clear Malik knew things he did not.

"What do you ask of the Church of God?" asked the priest.

"Faith," replied one of the men.

"And what does Faith offer you?"

"Life everlasting."

The priest made the sign of the cross. "_Exi ab eo, immunde spiritus, et da locum Spiritui Sancto Paraclito._"

"Amen," they all said in unison.

They continued in hushed voices, and at one point the infant began to cry. The mother shushed it, bouncing it up and down in her arms. The men seemed unruffled by the noise, though one of them took a half step forward to place his hand on the woman's shoulder.

Their target didn't even look up.

He was a big man, with shaggy brown hair and a square jaw partially hidden behind a tangled beard. There were streaks of grey on his head and chin, making him easy to spot from a distance and slower prey besides. Altaïr was in his sixteenth year; there would be no great contest of strength if this mission came to blows. Still, they kept their distance for a reason, waiting for the right moment to strike with the least collateral damage.

As Apprentice Assassins, Altaïr, Malik and Abbas had been sent away from Masyaf to live with their Brothers in Aleppo. For three months they'd been training with the Northern Brotherhood under Harash, second in command to Al Mualim and a tyrannical commander. Labib's questionable training tactics paled in comparison.

Harash's tireless campaign to make his subordinates' lives miserable was one of the reasons Altaïr found his company so enjoyable. Malik and Altaïr had formed something of a team, performing the odd piece of mischief here and there to keep themselves occupied. Even Abbas provided a convenient secondary target when Harash was unavailable.

"Does the stonework fascinate you?" Malik inquired. "I have never seen anyone stare so intently at a wall before."

Altaïr met his gaze. "I am imagining Harash waking up tomorrow morning, and trying to put on a uniform three sizes too small."

Malik snorted. "How long before he figures it out?"

"At least a day before he realizes it was done intentionally," Altaïr hoped it would take him longer.

"First he will imagine himself a giant. Grown tall overnight."

"And when he sees that everyone else remains the same?"

"He will blame some sort of magic," Malik frowned. "I will be disappointed if a witch gets credit for our hard work."

Altaïr nodded in agreement, and they settled into a habitual quiet. They had established a routine over the years of simply sitting and thinking together. For the most part their friendship was spent in silence.

Despite this he missed his other friends terribly; Adha and Rauf had remained in Masyaf to continue their studies, and he knew Malik's thoughts never strayed too far from Kadar. Harash was an easy diversion, but there were times when the days between missions grew long and the itch of inaction made him half stupid, half spiteful. On those days he would avoid Malik and the things he would regret admitting.

Altaïr shifted against the hard wood, uncomfortably aware of how stiff his thighs were getting. He struck up a half-hearted conversation to distract himself, and didn't realize until halfway through that he hadn't been paying any attention.

Malik was relaying a story. Or was it a memory? It involved the two of them, of that he was sure. "We were in the library with Scholar Nasir, _and I know you remember because you have very few memories of the library to chose from_, and Scholar Nasir asked us which of the Jerusalem kings had the leprous son."

"And?"

"And," continued Malik, visibly annoyed, "you said it was the French pig Baldwin the Fourth."

"That is correct," Altaïr nodded sagely.

"It is not! Baldwin the fourth _is_ the Leper King. His father's name was Amalric."

"How do I know you aren't inventing this information?"

Malik groaned, and Altaïr had to turn away or risk giving his amusement away.

"Why would I lie?"

"You are a mysterious man," Altaïr said simply, knowing Malik would find the statement infuriating.

"And you are a lackwit with absolutely no means for retaining valuable information. I wouldn't be surprised in the least if you could not recall any of the things I've just told you."

"The French pig Baldwin has leprosy. There. I remembered."

"And his father's name is…?"

Altaïr tapped a finger to his chin in mock contemplation. He could feel Malik twitching in anticipation, or perhaps annoyance. It made little difference with their bodies pressed so close.

"Albert?" He answered, not bothering to hide his grin any longer.

Malik shoved him in the side. It would have been enough to knock him off the beam had he not been anticipating it. He adjusted his weight accordingly and returned the push with considerably more force. Malik teetered for a second before catching himself on the support to his right.

"Hey!" Malik exclaimed.

Altaïr's eyes widened and they both sucked in a breath, glancing down at the church beneath them. Nobody taking part in the small service below had looked up at the noise. Altaïr fixed Malik with a look of stern disapproval. It would have been more believable if he could keep his mouth from turning up at the corners.

"Shut up." Malik hissed.

"I wasn't the one who cried out." Altaïr said, equally quiet.

"You pushed me."

Altaïr leaned forward unnecessarily, his nose almost brushing against Malik's cheek. "You pushed me first."

Malik slid his gaze to look Altaïr in the eye, and Altaïr could count each of his eyelashes when he blinked. They were absurdly long.

"I believe the service is ending," Malik breathed.

"And our target?"

Malik didn't move. "Still sitting at the back. Most likely he is in prayer."

Altaïr hummed. "He must have a lot to say. I suppose it would be impolite of us to interrupt his final words with God."

"Impolite?" The curve of Malik's cheek rose when he smiled, and Altaïr felt a rush at being so close to something so rare. "Since when do you concern yourself with politeness?"

"When it is convenient." Another shift and they would be touching.

"Altaïr –"

"You have absurdly long eyelashes," he blurted out.

Malik drew away, breaking contact and leaning against the beam to his right. The smile was gone, but the ghost of it still lingered around his eyes. "And you have an absurdly short attention span."

Altaïr shrugged. "I care about very little."

"Is an important mission such as this of any particular interest?" Malik continued before Altaïr could answer. "Because our target is currently on the move."

Altaïr hesitated, wondering what would happen if he told Malik that, no, he could not care less about this mission if the alternative was spending more time up in the rafters, leaning into Malik and watching his minute reactions. Malik must have sensed his indecision, because a moment later he felt another shove. This one was rougher than the first, and at the same time a foot hooked around Altaïr's legs to keep him off balance. Altaïr pitched forward, twisting inelegantly as he fell several meters to the ground. The stone floor was uneven beneath the balls of his feet, and he had to bite back a yelp as a stab of pain shot through his ankles and knees. Malik landed beside him a moment later, expression mild.

Altaïr inspected the church from the new angle. He took note of the number of benches, the number of windows, the placement of the altar and the shape of each stone protruding at eye level. He could see pigeon droppings streaking the face of St. Michael. A bible left open against the floor. The organ had dust collecting at the edges. A basin carved in the likeness of an angel was missing three fingers. Droplets of holy water lay scattered and wasted after the baptism.

"Out the same door he came," Malik provided.

Malik's hair was unevenly cut, dark against dark skin and ruffled from the drop. Lines pulled at his forehead in memory of a near-constant frown. Hands sat on hips as an idle finger touched well hidden steel. A scar crept over an exposed collarbone and disappeared into white robes. Altaïr knew where it ended, had seen it in its entirety many times. They were nearly the same height. Malik short just an inch.

"I know," Altaïr said quickly, and he was a little too on edge from their recent proximity. He should not have gotten so close, and now he would be busy trying to distract himself instead of focusing on their target.

Malik didn't wait for him to follow, already passing the altar with a hand extended to push against the hidden door beyond. A thin slit of afternoon light spilled into the church, widening to engulf them both as the door creaked open. Sound and smell and cobbled streets assaulted Altaïr's senses the moment he stepped outside.

The church opened onto a main road, easily accessible to everyone living in the city and visible at all times from the market. Altaïr and Malik had circled the entrance multiple times before sneaking through the window, deciding it would be more prudent to exit through the back when the time came. The rear end of the church was significantly less impressive than the front, sitting snuggly between a busy opium house and a modest cobbler's stall.

Malik did a preliminary sweep of the road, body barely moving as his eyes zigzagged through various men and women. His brow creased in concentration just as his cheeks pinched upwards against the glare of the sun. A tongue peeked out between parched lips.

Altaïr blinked and looked away hastily.

The people of St. Symeon kept their heads bowed, uninterested in their surroundings and hurrying towards their destinations of food and shelter. A few men stumbled out of the opium house, gesticulating in slow, uninhibited movements which nearly knocked another passerby to the ground. One of them laughed haltingly.

He spotted their target down the street, standing in front of a temporary platform with several other spectators. Altaïr tapped Malik on the arm as gingerly as he could, then motioned towards the crowd.

Altaïr assumed it would be some sort of argument or fight drawing the onlookers' curiosity, as violence was prone to break out in hot weather and boredom was a symptom which afflicted most big cities. What greeted them, however, wasn't anything unsavory. A young Moorish man sat in the corner of the makeshift stage, covered head to toe in white silk robes and plucking absently at a battered oud. The notes were strung together at random, but the sound was inviting in its carelessness.

Sprawled out beside him were two beautiful women; their skin a shocking white against the dark dye of their clothes. Both wore long purple robes of a somewhat translucent material, loosely tied around their waists with thick ivory rope. There were very few people in St. Symeon who could afford to wear such rich colors. Their chests were within an inch of bare, and Altaïr noticed that the growing crowd consisted mainly of men his own age. The women who passed would avert their eyes while older men tittered and hurried along.

One of the two whores sighed heavily. Her lungs filled slowly, forcing the fabric of her dress to slip even further down her chest before she let all the air escape in a loud huff. Her lips and cheeks were tinted pink in an imitation of exertion.

Altaïr frowned when the man behind him leaned forward a little too far, almost knocking them both over in his eagerness to get closer. The man barely looked in Altaïr's direction as he mumbled a quick apology. _Those two could walk straight into the sea and these fools would follow without a second thought,_ Altaïr thought ruefully.

He glanced around for Malik, but his friend was no longer in the crowd. He turned his head sharply in the direction of their target. Gone. Altaïr swore under his breath. Would it have killed Malik to get his attention before leaving? He judged the general direction of their target's last movements and set off down the narrow streets.

When he caught up with Malik it was nearly sundown, and he spared a moment to be grateful for the growing dark. Malik had been right, their mission would be much easier thanks to their target's dawdling.

"You could have gotten my attention," Altaïr said by way of greeting. He crouched down next to Malik and tried to pace his breathing. Again.

"You were distracted," Malik replied curtly. Aside from the slight tilt of his head, he didn't acknowledged Altaïr's reappearance in any sort of gratifying way. Altaïr would have appreciated a little guilt at the very least.

"Where is he?" Altaïr grumbled.

"In his home," Malik gestured with his chin. "I believe he's alone but I cannot be certain."

"We know he is not married. And he doesn't seem the type to keep a woman." Altaïr said.

"Oh? How do you come by that conclusion?"

"There were two women sitting outside that church with barely a scarf's worth of clothing between them. The only men not tripping over themselves to have a look were the blind and the devout."

"I suffer from neither yet I did not find them so distracting." Malik groused.

"You may not be blind but you _are_ devout," Altaïr studied his friend' profile, suddenly serious. "Not to God," he struggled to form the words before he'd finished thinking them. "But to this. Our missions matter to you."

"Of course they do. We are both of us Apprentices now, our missions are more important than watching a pair of coin-dancers sunbathe by the side of the street," Malik's voice turned flat. "We prevent the unnecessary slaughter of innocents. We are the arbiters of peace within the world –"

"You are quoting at me."

"-as we stand against the rising tide of cruelty and injustice that amasses here at the center of creation –"

"Are you aware of yourself when you do that?"

Malik's tone softened as he finished. "We are nothing if we do not abide by the Creed."

Altaïr sighed. "I know these lessons, Malik."

"You say this man is devout because he cannot look upon a whore. You say neither can I because I am equally as devoted. Yet you yourself, as a Brother of the Order, looked at those women willingly. With enthusiasm!"

Altaïr smirked. "If you feel cheated of an opportunity, I would be content to stop by the stall once more on our way back."

"My point," Malik ground out, "is that your devotion is equal to mine. So how is it I am not constantly distracted but trivialities, as you seem to be."

"Constantly?" Altaïr felt heat rising to his face. "Five missions we've had this past year and this is the first time anything like this has happened. I _am_ a man, am I not?"

Malik stood abruptly, face stony and unreadable. Altaïr watched as he strode forward with uncharacteristic stiffness and pushed open the door to their target's house. There was a moment when all Altaïr could see was the darkened entryway where Malik had disappeared before he forced himself to follow.

It didn't take them long to find what they'd come for. Malik already had his blade drawn when their target opened his eyes, immediately alert and defensive as only a soldier's eyes could be.

Altaïr knew the advantage was with them for as long as the man remained in bed. He reached for a set of daggers in his sash and proceeded to throw two of them across the room. One lodged itself nicely above the man's head, while the other caught him in the thigh. The first was meant to confuse their target into inaction. The second was for him to speak quickly.

"Where is Sahar El Fehmi?" Malik growled, positioning his blade at the man's abdomen.

"I-I do not know any Sahar!"

Malik cut into the man's stomach with the tip of his sword. Blood streamed from the wound and spread across the pale sheets like fire.

"Where can we find him, Dawud?" Malik pressed over the man's groans. "We know you met with him two months ago. Do not lie."

Their target's eyes widened. "He does not tell me anything! I am just a messenger for his deals with the French!"

"And the most recent deal?"

They received nothing but sobs in reply, and Altaïr took a threatening step towards the bed. He had a dagger at the ready, but there was little doubt in his mind that the man needed anything more than threats.

True to this prediction, the man sent Altaïr a terrified glance and sucked in a gasp. "Ten thousand men," he cried. "I am to deliver that message to Gerard de Ridefort."

"Say it again."

"Gerard de Ridefort! T-ten thousand men! Please I –"

Malik drew his sword from the man's flesh and buried it into his neck, silencing his final plea for mercy. It was an inefficient way to kill a man at close proximity, and Altaïr watched as Malik sliced through muscles and meat long after the man was dead. Blood sprayed forth as the heart continued to pump, projecting its labors through an open throat and bathing Malik with crimson gore.

Altaïr was reminded of the infant child; its head wet with holy water and a solemn initiation to the army of God.

XxXxX

******UPDATE: I received the most amazing piece of fan-art for this chapter from Kiaraz, go check it out! (remove the spaces): **http:/ kiaraz . deviantart . com/art/Novice-283922010

**A/N: **A quick chapter update for once :) I'm so happy to be done with the kid stuff (Altaïr, Malik and co are now 16. Kadar is 13). As always, general infos on the time period can be found fairly easily, but if you have questions about certain people and/or events feel free to ask me. I try to limit myself to actual history when not citing the ACverse.

I have an embarrassingly reoccurring nightmare where a crotchety old historian reads this fic and points out all my factual errors. Makes for a slow researching process seeing as _no one was writing useful shit down in the 1100s._

**Reviews:**

**ScarletCougar:** Thank you for the review :) I loved that line as well, that's why I decided to end on it! **Melloln: **You're right about Eric Cartman! Now I can't stop imagining him in a tuque or that horrible nasally voice… Oh Geez. Thank you for the wonderful compliments, I'm glad the wait was short(er) this time round. **Iserial:** Thanks! I love bratty-Al too, writing his dialogue was the reason I wanted to take on this project in the first place :) I hope you keep reading!


	10. Three Pears

**City center, Aleppo**

Malik could not wash the blood off his clothes until they'd reached Aleppo's main square. It was the only public source of water in the city, and barring any attempts to break into a lord's house to use a private supply, they were left with no other choice but to wait.

Not that Altaïr minded; it allowed them to walk through the streets unhindered. There were always beggars lurking in the shadows of big cities, materializing out of nowhere when someone of means happened to pass. As a rule the Assassins dressed plainly, but there were no better witnesses to their deeds than those living on the streets. One only had to be on the lookout for a monk with a blood red sash. Chances were you'd be safer amongst the Assassins than with fellow vagrants.

The city's fountain stood in the Eastern corner of the square, and there were quite a few women and children standing around collecting water and exchanging gossip. The idle chatter ceased the moment they caught sight of Malik, as their eyes glued nervously to his bloodstained clothes. Quickly and in silence they melted into side streets and houses. Doors rattled shut, and suddenly the Assassins were alone.

Malik dropped onto the stone edge of the fountain, eyes closed and breath uneven. Altaïr suspected for a moment that Malik might fall back into the water, soaking his clothes and making a scene. He'd been seething silently since they'd left their target's home, and he hadn't looked in Altaïr's direction for nearly an hour. But Malik simply turned away to pick up an abandoned bucket, filling it with water and dumping it over his head and chest.

"Would you mind getting us something to eat?" Malik asked after several minutes of this.

He emptied the bucket over his left shoulder, dislodging some dried blood and dying his sleeve brown. Altaïr watched him repeat the motion twice.

"There is a baker's stall three streets down," Malik prompted.

Altaïr shook himself and took off. He ignored Malik's advice to find the bakery; he knew which one Malik had meant, and it would be no good getting in there. The baker kept several serrated knives for slicing his produce, and three blades tucked into his belt to protect against thieves. Altaïr had come into contact with all ten during his first week in Aleppo.

Instead he made his way towards the outskirts. Aleppo was full of merchants, whether they were selling food or clothing or warm bodies; trade was always lively throughout the year. Altaïr must have visited each shop at least twice during his stay with the Northern Brotherhood. He knew exactly where to go for their supper tonight.

A vendor in the Eastern sector was standing outside his stall, head bowed and arms folded. He was leaning casually against the wall, and didn't move when Altaïr swept down from above. Altaïr made no effort to conceal his intentions as he snatched three pears from the shop's display.

He hesitated for a second, conflicted, then flicked a coin at the man's feet before leaving.

Altaïr tucked the pears away into his pouch without so much as sniffing them. He could appreciate their fine texture and sweet taste, but he could never justify going so far out of his way for something so trivial and easily bruised. They were not ideal to bring along on a mission, and there were rarely any merchants offering them. In any case the pears weren't for him.

"God will judge us all, alive or dead, but by then it will be too late!"

Altaïr stopped walking, catching sight of a young man dressed in preacher's garb. He was speaking to a gathering crowd from on top of an upturned vegetable cart, in a fervent and lively manner that seemed to permeate the Christian masses.

"Because only those who believe in Jesus will be saved," the man continued, waving a little worn book and thumping the cover.

_Jesus will not save you in this city_, Altaïr thought, though he commended the man for being brave enough to enter the city in the first place. Aleppo was not part of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and as such was still under Muslim control. Altaïr didn't doubt that there were many Christians living discreetly in Aleppo, but there would be no one willing to defend this man should the commoners turn against him.

The man was working himself up now, his face red and his voice straining. "What are you waiting for? _What are you waiting for?_ The Kingdom of God is upon us. Do you understand what I am telling you, like men? Or do you nod your heads like sheep? Baah-baah!" The man made a funny sort of noise and the crowd laughed.

"You are smiling now, I can see it! But God sees past your smiles and your laughter. He will forgive the lies upon your souls if you are willing to love Him and accept His love in return!"

Someone in the crowd jeered, and another spat at the man's feet. Altaïr slipped his hand down the nearest two pockets, replacing the money he'd paid for the pears, and continued on his way. He had no desire to stay and watch the heretic get torn apart by an angry mob.

He returned to Malik with two fresh loaves of bread, hot in his hands and steaming when they were pulled open. Malik had finished washing his clothes, and he handled his loaf delicately on wet fingertips. They ate in relative silence, much to Altaïr growing agitation, until the pears were produced. Altaïr dropped them unceremoniously onto Malik's lap, and was instantly gratified by the look of pure craving that passed over Malik's face. Altaïr tried not to blink in case he missed them being eaten.

"One of these days I'm going to make you show me where you keep getting these." Malik said, picking up one of the fruit reverently.

Altaïr stared as Malik bit carefully into the pear, juices dribbling down his chin. "Gerard de Redfort…" Altaïr started shakily, trying for casual. "Do you recognize the name?"

Malik didn't seem particularly surprised at the question. "No, I have never heard it before."

Altaïr knew better than to ask if Malik was certain. They'd walked in silence for nearly an hour; most likely Malik had mulled over their target's final words multiple times already.

"Me neither," Altaïr agreed glumly.

Malik swallowed a bit of pear. "All I can assume is that he is a French lord, most likely a business contact of Sahar El Fehmi."

"And ten thousand men? Sahar El Fehmi is no slave trader."

"Even if he were, ten thousand is too large a number." Malik finished his pear and threw the core onto the street. He picked up another, pausing before bringing it to his mouth. "We know Sahar El Fehmi spends most of his time across the sea, perhaps the message is of no concern to us."

"That puts us in a bad position for finding further information," Altaïr looked pointedly to Malik's sodden clothes. "Our only accessible source has lost his head."

Malik shot him a dirty look, but made no comment. He finished his second pear, and offered the last one to Altaïr.

"No," _I got them for you_, "I'm not hungry."

Malik shrugged and tucked the pear away for later, getting up and stretching his arms above his head.

"I want to sleep in a proper bed tonight, Altaïr, another night on the ground and my neck will stiffen for good. We should get back before we get locked out."

Altaïr nodded and stood. He wanted to watch Malik eat the last pear, but he knew saying so would get him an odd look and Malik would probably avoid eating around him for the rest of his life.

"You've been spoiled by soft sheets," he said instead. "I can remember you as a boy, impressed with the _finery_ of the fortress."

Malik snorted. "I had yet to experience the lifestyle of our Brothers here. Al Mualim would never allow such luxuries in Masyaf."

"Harash knows his beds must be comfortable, or else no one would ever return to his command," Altaïr quipped.

It didn't take them long to reach the Assassins' stronghold. The great complex of Aleppo was spread out over a very wide area, and did not rise above a single story. The only place where it diverged from this simple design was in the very center, where Harash's quarters rose above the walls in a conspicuous imitation of Al Mualim's tower. In this way it was completely different from the fortress of Masyaf, which rose ominously like the mountains surrounding it. The Aleppo stronghold was deceptively simple on the outside, though in fact it was nearly twice as large as the Masyaf fortress, housing nearly fifty Brothers at any given time.

Malik and Altaïr greeted the Brothers keeping guard at the gate, nodding in thanks when the way opened at once. Several novices ran through the main entrance, yelling to each other nearly knocking them over before diverging at the last second. Altaïr opened his mouth to reprimand the little brats, but Malik nudged him in the ribs and they continued along.

Four doors and a courtyard later they came across Fahd, a Master Assassin who took command of the Northern Assassins whenever Harash was indisposed. He beckoned them over without a word, and his authority was clear in the way he addressed them.

"You're back early," he said without preamble. "We thought you would be gone for at least two more days."

Malik bowed his head respectfully before replying. "Our target was more predictable than we originally assumed."

"I see. And what information did you acquire?"

Malik hesitated, and Altaïr stepped in. "With regards to our purpose in questioning him, he was not very well informed."

"Meaning?"

"He would not speak of Sahar El Fehmi," Altaïr corrected himself quickly, "he _could_ not speak of him."

Fahd frowned. _This report isn't going very well,_ Altaïr thought grimly.

"He knew El Fehmi," Malik interjected, "but only as messenger between him and another client named Gerard de Redfort."

Immediately Fahd's attention snapped into focus. His eyes narrowed at Malik's words. "Did he have a message from this man?"

"No, he had a message _for _him."

"Which was?"

"Ten thousand men."

"…That's it?"

Malik took a deep breath. "Ten thousand men was the message, directly from Sahar El Fehmi through his agent in St. Symeon."

"And there were no documents to provide context for such a message?"

Malik shook his head. "We searched his home for records, but it was clear he had not been living there long."

Fahd stood still for several moments, contemplating the information in silence. Eventually he looked back at them, expression rigid. "Report yourselves to the armory," he instructed. "Mohammad will restock whatever weapons you've managed to misplace," he finished, directing this last comment at Altaïr.

They bowed their heads at the obvious dismissal, and left hurriedly without a word. As soon as they were around the corner, Altaïr groaned. "Why does he assume _I'm_ the only one who loses things on missions? Abbas forgot to bring back a gold ring once. Do you remember that? His only mission was to retrieve it as evidence and he left it inside some brothel in Hama," a sudden thought made him snicker. "Inside a woman most likely!"

"I remember that," Malik said, smiling distractedly. "He told Harash it was sorcery."

"I'd believe it was sorcery if the woman agreed to bed him."

Malik grabbed his arm, forcing them to a stop in the middle of the corridor. "You go to Mohammed, I have nothing to report."

"Where are you going?" Altaïr asked.

"To the library. I want to find out what I can about Gerard de Redfort."

"I'll come with you," Altaïr said, before he realized how it would sound.

Malik smiled patiently at him. "Altaïr, complain all you want, you _do_ actually have missing weapons to report. Go. I'll find you later."

Altaïr scowled. Malik's logic was as infuriating as it was helpful, and Altaïr couldn't reasonably argue the point any further. So the two of them parted ways.

The armory was at the opposite end of the stronghold, occupying two entire buildings for storage and a third for maintenance. Mohammad sat hunched over a desk in what could generously be referred to as his office, though there was barely enough room to move amongst the hundreds of loose blades along the walls and ceiling. Altaïr navigated the floor gingerly, wary from past experience.

"What is it?" The old man cawed when Altaïr came into view. "Lost the whole damn thing, is that right?"

"I left three blades behind," Altaïr admitted grudgingly.

"What's that? Speak up boy!"

"Three daggers!"

"Three?"

"_Yes, three!_"

Mohammad cackled loudly, and Altaïr grimaced at the grating noise. The old man rose from his chair and started rooting through his stores in the back. The clattering sound of steel drowned out his further snickering.

A boy dressed in novice garb poked his head inside the shop, relief flooding his face when he spotted Altaïr standing inside. He cleared his throat politely several times before speaking up.

"A-Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad," he began tentatively. "I've been sent to bring you to Master Harash."

Altaïr raised an eyebrow at him. "For what purpose?"

The novice blinked in surprise; clearly he had not been given this information. Altaïr could see the boy starting to fidget under his gaze. "I am s-sorry. I d-do not know."

"Obviously he doesn't know!" Mohammad cried, returning from his search with arms full of blades of all shapes and sizes. He was deceptively strong for a man of his age. "Look at his face. Big empty eyes like a cow."

The novice reddened and bowed his head. His desire to flee was almost tangible.

"Ashamed, are we? Good! Stupidity is the worst of failings," Mohammad pronounced, looking at Altaïr expectantly.

Altaïr ignored the invitation to join in with some mild satisfaction. He wasn't interested in making jokes at the expense of a novice, and it seemed like an activity only useless old Brothers would have time for. He inspected a few of the blades and chose the three which best fit his hand (though he couldn't find the patience to check through them all). He left the armory as soon as his new weapons were tucked into place.

The novice trailed after him eagerly. At first Altaïr didn't notice, until they'd turned down a third corridor and the boy was still almost stepping on his heels. Altaïr turned on him abruptly, ready to say something harsh in order to get the boy to leave. Perhaps his expression was more intense than he'd intended, because one look and the boy ran off in the opposite direction.

Altaïr sighed and continued on his way. He hadn't thought Harash would hear of their mission's success so soon after their arrival, and the fact that he would summon Altaïr immediately afterwards made the situation all the more suspicious.

A winding staircase led up to Harash's apartments, purposefully narrow and steep to facilitate it's defense. The tower was designed with combat in mind, just as the rest of the stronghold, though Harash's quarters were misleadingly garish in their appearance. The Northern leader had added a number of unremarkable decorations to the walls of the common areas, but his private chambers were more suited to a lord's tastes than those of an Assassin.

Altaïr navigated a small cluster of statues and pillows in front of Harash's study, knocking dutifully at the door before entering. His eyes first landed on Harash, who stood facing away from him with his arms crossed. Then he spotted Abbas sitting in a chair opposite the leader's bureau. They exchanged cold glances, and Altaïr didn't miss the confusion that flashed briefly over Abbas' face.

"There's been a letter from Masyaf," Harash announced, not turning. "Two, in fact. Both of which concern you."

Altaïr scanned the bureau immediately; mixed among the piled mess of documents he noticed two pieces of parchment marked with the red seal of Masyaf.

"A month ago Saladin claimed publicly to have escaped several attempts on his life. He blamed Al Mualim for these and laid siege to the city. As recompense he demanded our allegiance to his cause."

Altaïr frowned, confused. He knew of the Sultan Saladin, but could not fathom his reasoning for attacking the Brotherhood. The Assassins devoted themselves to maintaining the balance of power; political association was out of the question.

"On the third day of the siege, Ahmad Sofian reported knowing the location of the Sultan's tent and defense patterns," Harash continued, and Altaïr saw Abbas stiffen at the name of his father. "He and Umar Ibn-La'Ahad were sent to infiltrate the Sultan's tent and leave a warning; a knife on Saladin's sleeping pallet. In this they were successful, however Saladin awoke in time to raise the alarm, and Ahmad was captured. Umar escaped but was forced to kill a Saracen general in his path."

Harash paused, bringing a cup of water to his lips and drinking from it slowly. Altaïr forced down the rush of impatience that threatened to overwhelm him.

"In response to the death of one of his commanders, Saladin offered a truce and the release of Ahmad in exchange for Umar's life." Harash's voice was dull in Altaïr's ears. "Al Mualim accepted these generous terms for the good of the Brotherhood, and Saladin's army has withdrawn from Masyaf."

Altaïr stood very still, waiting for Harash to continue. _What does he mean, accepted these generous terms?_ He saw Abbas staring at him from the corner of his eye, but he couldn't break his gaze away from Harash's perfectly embroidered robes. _A truce and the release of Ahmad in exchange for Umar's life…_

Harash turned around to face them for the first time, breaking Altaïr's line of sight. Their leader was looking between them impassively. "That is all," he said.

Altaïr didn't wait for a proper dismissal, exiting the room as quickly as possible and nearly tripping down the steps in his decent. He hardly noticed when he reached his room, slamming the door shut and pacing automatically between his bed and the stark stone walls.

At one point he removed his cowl and outer robes, tossing them into a corner carelessly. He lost track of himself and his thoughts until there came a sharp knock at the door, and he didn't stop his pacing even when Malik entered the room.

"It was more difficult than I thought," Malik began, as though no time had passed between then and their last conversation, "he isn't mentioned in any official records, nor any reports made by our contacts among the Christian leaders."

Altaïr stopped moving long enough to watch Malik sit down on the edge of his bed, spreading out several documents for him to see.

"I eventually came across this," Malik indicated the first page. "It appears to be a journal entry of some kind, though it gives no hint at its original purpose. Look here," he held it up for Altaïr to see. "It was written during the second crusade, signed and dated by a General _de Redfort_… and here, see, this little red cross. I think I've seen it somewhere before."

Altaïr leaned forward dutifully, but made no further attempt to look over the evidence. Malik watched him, eagerness slowly morphing into concern at Altaïr's sudden lack of interest. Altaïr anticipated the questions he didn't wish to answer, so he spoke up before Malik could ask. "Read it to me?" He cut in, hoping Malik wouldn't hear it as pleading.

It worked. Malik didn't hesitate, placing the first page on his lap and reading it aloud in a calm and clear voice.

"Jerusalem. Year eleven-fifty on the first day of the month of June."

Altaïr felt the tension begin to drain from his limbs.

"My arrival on these shores was a day of celebration, yet these first few years in the Kingdom of God have given me many lifetimes worth of deception and disappointment. I have witnessed good men turned cruel and simple while fools and sons of whores are made lords over men. Soldiers cross the sea on the mission and word of God, only to turn blind and beggar upon arrival. The singers love to sing of good men forced to go outside the law to fight some wicked lord, but most outlaws here are men of faith and means to lead an honest life. They are not evil men, like those already living under the False Prophet, driven by greed, soured by malice, despising their loving God and caring only for themselves. Broken men are the result of our mission here. Christian men turned animals without purpose."

Altaïr took a deep breath, sinking down onto the bed with his back against Malik's.

"Almost all our men were common-born, simple folk who had never been more than a mile from the house they were born in until the day we came to take them off to war. Poorly fed and poorly clad, they marched away beneath the crosses, with no better arms than a sickle or a sharpened hoe. We took brothers and sons and fathers and we told them to bring along their friends and their families. They'd have heard the songs and stories, so they came off with eager hearts, dreaming of the wonders they would see, of the wealth and glory they would win. The war for God seems a glorious adventure, the greatest of them all.

"Then we march them into battle."

Altaïr closed his eyes and allowed the steady flow of words to fill his mind. They pushed away the grim thoughts circling and crowding his head.

"For some, Faith flees them after the first battle. Others go on for years, until they lose count of all the battles they have fought in, and it becomes all that they know. Brothers watch brothers die, fathers lose their sons, friends see their friends trying to hold onto limbs after they've been hacked off with an axe.

"They see that God does not take pity on their lords, and when one leader dies a different lord will claim them for his own. They take a wound, and before that one's been tended they take another. There is never enough to eat, their feet blister from marching, their clothes are torn and rotting, and half of them are vomiting out their stomachs from drinking bad water."

Altaïr shuffled further up onto the bed. He twisted until he sat facing Malik's back, knees tucked beneath him. Malik didn't falter, even when Altaïr's forehead fell to rest on the back of his neck.

"Soon they are stealing from corpses to cover from the cold, and the men at their side are strangers they won't bother getting to know. Peasants and commoners become foreign to them, and they forget that their purpose to God does not serve them personally. Soon they are stealing from the small-folk too, and from there it's a small step to desertion and murder. A day comes when they can no longer remember the hymns and prayers that convinced them of their duty, and as the knights come charging down towards them, clad all in steel, shouting a language they've never heard and the thunder of their charge seems to fill the world…

"And I have never seen Faith sustain a broken man."

Altaïr let out a shaky breath, unable to move or form a response. Malik must have felt the moisture falling against his skin, but no other words were spoken until dawn broke the next morning.

XxXxX

**A/N: **When I first started writing this fic, I wanted to avoid adding any religious aspects to the story for as long as possible. I'm starting to see now that this will be impossible, as religious fanaticism plays such a vital role in shaping the setting. It's been established that Assassins didn't practice any particular religion (though most identified as one or the other; Alty's dad was Muslim. My own character, Yosef, was Jewish.) I've decided to approach this aspect of the story by comparing the religious fervor of the time to the Assassins' own cult-like devotion to the Creed and Al Mualim. I hope it's working!

**Reviews:**

**Blahdeedah:** bahaha! I should have made them have a fight right away, it would've been hilarious! For the moment, Malik's emotions are a bit tricky to decipher… I'm keeping his thoughts in the dark on purpose! Next chapter will switch between them as per usual. In regards to the scar: tut-tut! You'll just have to wait and see. I hope you like this quick-serve chapter :) Thanks as always for the lovely reviews. **Lostwithoutdoubt:** Their bickering is definitely my favorite part to write, I'm glad you enjoy it as well! It's an unfortunate cornerstone of their relationship, now and for many more years :) Thanks for the review! **Coconuthero:** I don't know why but I've always imagined Malik would have really thick eyelashes… I'm relieved to hear you say the transition worked, I was a bit worried I'd dragged it out too long. I definitely sacrificed a lot of readers for the slow build-up. High-five for sticking with me for so long, it's what keeps me going :) Thanks for all your lovely reviews! **Nekokoa: **Thank you for the review! I'm glad you liked the ending, it's the part I wrote first haha. Hopefully you're happy to see this update as well! **Kiaraz:** I can't even tell you how ridiculously pleased I am. When I started writing the story, I had this idea in the back of my mind that fan-art was the ultimate achievement for a story like this. Do you know what it means now that I've got some? _I have won the life-lottery._


	11. Waking Up

**West Bank of the Orontes River - 1182**

Malik could not imagine a worse way to travel. Actually that wasn't quite true, if he were stuffed inside a stiff burlap sack and thrown over a cart of potatoes, he would probably find his current situation more acceptable. Though in that instance he would be dead. So.

They'd been riding for three days straight, stopping only briefly in Albara to give their horses a chance to rest. Malik snorted at the memory. The horses had barely taken two gulps of water before they'd set off again. Malik's rear-end would have appreciate the opportunity to at least _dismount_.

As it was they were only half a day's ride from Masyaf, and they were all eager to see their home once again. It had not been so long for Malik and Altaïr, but most of the Brothers traveling with them had not laid eyes on the Fortress in many years. Soon after the initial reports of the siege were announced, a request arrived for the Northern Brothers to send food and supplies southward. Malik was sure that Harash would have ignored the appeal had it not come from Al Mualim directly. News of the siege had spread quickly in Aleppo, so even if Harash had chosen to disregard his duty to the Grand Master, many of his subordinates would have abandoned their posts to support Masyaf of their own accord.

A week after the letters first came there were twenty-three Brothers prepared and ready to ride. Loading their carts with all the supplies Aleppo could spare, they departed without a backwards glance. Harash sent his regrets in a sealed letter at Abbas' waist; he could not afford to leave his own tenuous position unguarded.

Altaïr had made his opinion on the subject very clear, stating loudly for all to hear that he believed Harash was glad of the convenient flight of all Al Mualim's most loyal followers. Malik knew Altaïr better than to assume his comments were unfounded. They were said in anger (and with full use of his extensive foul vocabulary), but underneath his concern was perfectly clear. Harash had been a power-hungry nuisance. Now, with no one left to watch him, he was a potential threat.

"You slump like a woman who carries twins in her stomach."

Malik glared over at Altaïr, who rode next to him even though it meant lagging behind most of their company.

"How long did it take you to think up that comparison?" There was no way Malik would sit up now. Even though calling attention to it had made his muscles ache with the desire to straighten.

"Quite a while," Altaïr replied amicably. "Though I could think of a few more if you'd prefer something else."

"I would be waiting for a long time," Malik said. Then reevaluated. "Actually, yes, I would very much like you to think of some more."

"I try to take your mind off your agonizing, and see where it gets me? Fine. We'll talk about something else."

"There is absolutely nothing I wish to discuss."

Altaïr actually laughed. _How could he possibly be in such a good mood?_ Malik grimaced._ He does it just to annoy me, and his teasing makes him impossible. I absolutely will not give in to such an obvious attempt at getting me to speak to this buffoon._

"The text," Altaïr said through chuckles. "We haven't properly discussed its significance yet."

"It's a translation," Malik ground out. "The original text was written thirty years ago by Gerard de Redfort after the siege of Damascus."

"A disappointing affaire, if his words and my memory of Scholar Nasir's lessons are anything to go by."

Malik snorted, but ignored the bait. "He marked his name next to a little red symbol. A cross? It was difficult to make out."

"Most likely a crusaders' crest." Altaïr reasoned. "The message we intercepted in St. Symeon was meant for this man, whoever he may be."

"Ten thousand men," Malik said, straightening slightly.

Altaïr nodded. "Yes, but for what purpose? He writes like a man defeated."

"A man whose _religion_ has been defeated," Malik countered.

"The Christians are far from knowing defeat."

"Then to what end does he need an army, if not for the defense of Jerusalem?"

An abandoned waterway cut deep into the road ahead, and their horses were forced into a short gallop to make it across.

"What I don't understand," Malik continued, breathless but still caught up in his questions, "is why the Brotherhood would have such a personal document in their possession. A handwritten translation from French to Arabic… I do not know many who could manage it with such ease; the language and subject matter was quite convoluted."

Altaïr shook his head, a knowing smile tugging at his features. Malik's grip on his reins tightened. _Damn him for getting me started._

They spent the rest of the ride in silence, due mostly to Malik's stubborn refusal to engage in further conversation. Altaïr made a few good-natured jibes (none of which were even remotely funny), but when those all failed to elicit the desired response, he quieted. The smile never quite left his face, much to Malik's chagrin.

Rauf was waiting for them when they reached the gates, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun as it set at their backs. It was clear when exactly he caught sight of his old friends, arms thrusting into the air as a delighted grin threatened to split his face.

"Brothers!" he called, once they were close enough to hear. "If you've come all this way to rescue us, you are a little late!"

Malik dismounted with a sigh, fighting the urge to simply collapse into the dirt. He might have given in had Rauf not come forward to clasp his forearm in an enthusiastic greeting. Malik was struck immediately by how very tall Rauf had grown in their absence; easily a half-head taller than Altaïr. Malik groused internally at being the shortest of their gang (though Altaïr surpassed him by just a hair, and only when he stood up straight). Malik would have to investigate further; surely Kadar had not grown so much.

Rauf moved passed Malik and approached Altaïr, gripping his arm as well. Malik could see the same look of surprise pass over Altaïr's expression as his eyes traveled upwards, before he sobered and greeted Rauf with a smile.

"Your father," Rauf said, keeping his grasp firm when Altaïr started to pull away. "I am sorry for your loss. _El baqiya fi__ hayatak._" He gave his condolences with a sincerity than Malik would not have thought possible coming from his sarcastic friend.

Altaïr inclined his head, eyes hard. "_Shukran_," he replied dutifully. They parted and some of the tension left Altaïr's expression. "Your ears are no smaller than I remember. In fact, I think they've gotten bigger."

Rauf sniggered. "They're not the only things to have grown in size." He grabbed at his crotch and Malik couldn't help but roll his eyes.

Altaïr's answer was immediate. "You're right. I believe your feet are long enough now to crush entire cities? Is that right?"

"They're long enough to do this!" Rauf aimed a kick at Altaïr's shins, missing entirely when Altaïr leaped quickly out of range.

Malik watched the exchange with a sense of elated detachment. The feeling was slowly flooding back into his thighs and behind; an odd mixture of pained exhaustion and ecstatic relief at being rid of the constant bump and tumble of the saddle. He rubbed at his legs absently, eager to speed up the process.

Despite his rude delivery, Altaïr was right. Rauf had changed in more than just height. His chest and shoulders had filled out, his arms were thick with solid muscle, his face was no longer boyishly round. There was no getting away from those protruding mouse-like ears, but now they seemed an endearing quirk on an otherwise handsome face. An _attractive_ face. Malik frowned, returning his attention to his stinging thighs.

"Where is everyone else?" Altaïr asked suddenly.

"Were you expecting a parade?" Rauf taunted, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Or is it one face in particular that you were hoping to see?"

Altaïr glared at Rauf, his face reddening slightly. Malik was very careful to ignore the surge of annoyance which overwhelmed him at that particular reaction.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," Rauf continued, oblivious, "but our dear Sister has departed with the Sultan. She'll be living undercover amongst his camp followers, reporting on his movements in case Al Mualim decides to make good on his threats."

Malik's eyes widened. He had imagined many possible reunions between Altaïr and Adha; couldn't help the sense of impending doom as they drew closer to the Fortress. Each scenario began with a simple embrace, innocent until their lips met and hands wandered and activities ensued which had Malik clenching his fists and spurring his mount with undue force. To his shame, relief at prolonging the inevitable marred his concern for her safety.

"I was not asking about Adha," Altaïr hedged. "Al Mualim has not come forth to greet us either."

Rauf shrugged. "He is probably preoccupied with more important things. Or perhaps it's your Northern stink which keeps him away."

"And my brother?" Malik asked, unable to keep his own curiosity at bay any longer.

There was no need to clarify to whom he was referring, but Rauf looked confused by the question. "Still in Tyre with Rashid." He offered the information as though it were obvious. "Or it is possible they've made it to Acre by now. We have not heard from them in nearly a week."

"Rashid?" Altaïr interjected. "You mean that red-bearded Brother you used hang around with?"

Malik ignored him. "What sort of mission would require the two of them to travel together? My brother has not finished his studies."

Rauf's face fell. "You did not receive any of his letters?" he asked, though it wasn't so much a question as a verbal hope to be proven wrong. "He wrote you many times about his departure from Masyaf. His Journeyman training requires that he visit each of the Bureaus. Every one that lies between here and Jerusalem.

"It's been four months since I last saw him," Rauf added regretfully.

Malik blinked, the distinct feeling of being punched in the stomach creeping into his gut. "No. There were never any letters."

"Harash must have stolen them," Altaïr spat. "We should have raided his private library while we still had the chance."

"Harash?" Rauf asked, confused. "Why would he take them?"

"He's a wretched old louse."

Malik sucked in a breath, reminding himself that Altaïr was attempting to be supportive. "He has never met Kadar. There would be no reason for him to intercept the letters. They must have gotten lost."

Altaïr and Rauf exchanged doubtful glances, but neither argued the finality in his tone.

"Come," Rauf said evenly. "I assume you've forgotten the way to our old room. Allow me to lead you."

Altaïr managed to land a hit across his head, but only because he waited until Rauf's back was turned.

XxXxX

Altaïr barely recognized their chambers. Everything was as they'd left it, but hidden beneath a layer of discarded robes and books piled nearly to the ceiling. Altaïr held out a hand to keep Malik from flopping down onto his bed, pointing to a blade poking out from beneath the rumpled blankets. Malik groaned and swatted Altaïr's hand away.

"I apologize for the state of it," Rauf said sheepishly. "Let me clear this away…" He leaned over Malik's bed and shoved everything onto the floor. There was a loud thump as something other than clothes hit the ground.

Altaïr approached his side of the room, pushing aside the clutter so he could sit down. He noticed that the only surface devoid of any mess was the table beside his bed, where the crude wooden toy Wassim had carved all those years ago still occupied its lone place of honor.

They talked for a short while, Rauf filling them in on his reasons for wanting to be an Instructor (he could stay in the Fortress for months at a time and the novices had to fetch him his breakfast), then regaled them with Irfan's latest attempts at sewing discord amongst the Brothers (he was still as fat as ever, though he used it like a weapon in the arena).

By the time the last stars came flickering into existence, they were all curled beneath their light summer blankets, silent but for Rauf's light snoring. Altaïr lay with his eyes open, staring out the window and wondering idly about how rare it was for Malik to fall asleep so quickly. _The ride must have been worse than he admitted,_ Altaïr thought._ We could have rested in Albara if he'd so much as hinted..._

There was a creak on the other side of the door, and Altaïr's gaze snapped instinctively to the source of the noise. He squinted into the dark shadows of the room, eyes adjusting from the moonlight outside his window.

A breath and a sudden gasp was all the warning he received before a hand clamped over his mouth, cold and clammy. A gaunt-looking face loomed over him, and it took a moment for Altaïr to recognize his assailant. Ahmad Sofian, the man whose life had been bought at the cost of his father's. Altaïr had seen those same eyes on Abbas' face, though he'd never seen such desperation there. He glared hatefully, tensing for a struggle.

"Do not fight me," Sofian whispered. "I have not come here to harm you."

Altaïr tried to work some of the man's flesh between his teeth, but his grip was steel against Altaïr's jaw.

"The night the Sultan removed Umar's head, I knew what I must do," Sofian continued quickly. "I have betrayed the Creed and compromised the Brotherhood. For this there is no forgiveness, but for the loss of your father I will repay all debts."

Altaïr's eyes widened as Sofian raised his right arm, a hidden blade glinting as it slid out of its sheath on his wrist.

"_Samehni, Altaïr Ibn La'Ahad_." Sofian breathed as he brought the blade to his neck, slicing through his own skin before he'd even finished speaking. Altaïr watched, horrified, as the man gurgled on the last syllables of his name, blood spilling liberally to cover them both. Sofian's hand fell away from Altaïr's mouth as he slumped forward across the bed. Altaïr felt the man's body twitch against his chest, final breaths rattling against his ear.

He lay paralyzed under the weight of it until rough hands came into view, gripping the corpse by the shoulders and dragging it off the bed. Malik stood before him, face rigid and eyes wide.

"One of us should get a Master," Rauf spoke from somewhere in the room. "Labib will be awake at this hour."

It was clear that Altaïr was not going to get up, and Malik made no sign that he had heard Rauf's words. A few moments later the door to their chambers slammed shut, and he and Malik were alone.

Slowly, very slowly, and careful not to step on Sofian's prone form, Malik made his way to the end of the bed. He sat gingerly on the edge, looking Altaïr full in the face and holding his gaze in his. A minute passed, then two. Eventually Altaïr's breathing returned to normal, the pounding in his head settling to a more manageable volume. Malik seemed to sense his growing calm, and allowed one hand to slip beneath the blankets to rest on Altaïr's ankle.

They were trained to wake at the slightest noise. A habit which had been drilled into their psyches after years of witnessing the dangers of being caught unawares. Their Fortress was a safe-haven from the cruelties of the world, and it had never occurred to him how careless the high stone walls had made him.

Sofian's suicide had been an invasion onto sacred ground, and he hadn't realized how profoundly it shocked him until he felt Malik's skin resting against his own.

Malik didn't remove his hand, even when Labib came bursting into their room unannounced. Altaïr shifted slightly in surprise and received an answering squeeze from Malik's fingers.

They had not laid eyes on each other in nearly two years, but there was absolutely nothing different about their Training Instructor's appearance. He gave a cursory glance around the room, taking in Sofian's body on the floor and the bloodstained sheets still covering Altaïr. Rauf appeared a moment later, panting.

"What happened?" Labib demanded.

"Ahmad Sofian snuck into our room while we slept and slit his throat before Altaïr," Malik provided, voice smooth.

"Is this true?" Labib asked, looking directly at Altaïr.

"Yes."

"And did he say anything to you before he died?"

Altaïr tried to focus on the palm still warming his ankle. A thumb detached from the rest and started rubbing circles on his skin. "He asked for forgiveness. For the death of my father and for his betrayal of the Creed."

Labib snorted once, as though the answer disappointed him. "You will sleep in a different room tonight. Come. And speak of this to no one."

XxXxX

By the next day there wasn't a soul in the Fortress who didn't know what had happened. Altaïr could see it in the way they ogled him, and whispered behind their hands. He stood in the courtyard; in the long line for food which snaked along the walls and made finding a spot to train an impossibility. Malik and Rauf were waiting for him in their usual spot, in the haystack outside the gates where he used to eat meals with Adha.

A novice passed in front of him, staring unabashedly. Altaïr could feel fury starting to rise beneath his skin. Each new pair of eyes was more accusing that the last. _They treat me with suspicion, as though I were somehow involved! _He shut his eyes tightly, rubbing at his temples as a headache threatened to surface. _I am a Brother of the Creed. It is them whose loyalty stands to question._ He opened his eyes again to glower across the courtyard.

Only he couldn't see the courtyard.

Altaïr blinked and shook his head, trying to throw off the sudden dark which clouded his sight. He had heard others describe heat-sickness, but he was not feeling particularly tired or ill. He turned his head up towards the sun, realizing with horror that he could not discern which part of the sky was brightest.

The Brother behind him tapped on his shoulder, a polite reminder to keep moving forward with the line. Altaïr swung his gaze around and gaped at the man's appearance. Not just him, but everyone in the courtyard seemed to blaze with a bright blue light. It radiated off their bodies and outwards like the aura of a star. He stumbled forward, no longer hungry and trying desperately to force down the bile that threatened to rise in his throat.

"Altaïr!"

Altaïr turned his head drunkenly, recognizing the voice which called him. Abbas was approaching him quickly, shoving away those standing in his path. He was glowing brighter than the others; a blood red hue that set Altaïr's teeth on edge.

"Altaïr!" Abbas called again, his voice rising in anger and the promise of violence.

Altaïr shook his head again, more vigorously this time. He would be handicapped in a fight amidst this miserable black fog.

Abbas was on him all too soon, letting lose a fierce cry as his fist connected with Altaïr's jaw. Altaïr stumbled back, clutching at his mouth. Something sharp had sliced through his lip, piercing his flesh from nose to chin. He spat out a gob of blood and righted himself.

The darkness was gone, taking the oddly glowing lights with it. Altaïr watched numbly as three Brothers gripped Abbas firmly by the arms, hauling him away from the courtyard as his raging continued.

"You're a liar and a traitor, Altaïr!" he screamed, struggling against the hold of his captors.

Altaïr saw a sheath attached to Abbas' forearm, the hidden blade extended and stained with blood.

"You will pay for this! I swear it on my life, you will pay!"

XxXxX

Rauf gripped his chin firmly, forcing his face into the light. Altaïr would have preferred to leave it alone, but the blood from his wound kept pouring into his mouth and down his throat, and Rauf said he would get sick if he were to accidentally swallow too much.

"I think the best way is to have it sewn," Rauf said at last, releasing Altaïr's face. "They can sew your whole mouth closed while they're at it."

"No," Altaïr replied automatically.

"No?" Rauf smirked. "Are you frightened, Altaïr?"

Altaïr grimaced, then immediately brought a hand to his mouth as pain laced through his stretched skin.

Rauf snorted and moved away, exiting their borrowed room without a backwards glance. Malik was standing further away, expression wearisome.

"Why didn't you defend yourself?" Malik asked, voice gruff.

"It was only Abbas," Altaïr shrugged. "I had no way of knowing he'd secured a Master's weapon in advance."

"A poorly concealed Master's weapon."

"I didn't see it."

Malik moved forward, coming to stand directly in front of Altaïr. A curious mixture of confrontational disbelief and genuine concern played for dominance across his face.

"That doesn't make even a little bit of sense. Everyone else saw his blade well before he reached you." He shook his head. "But I believe you. Allah as my witness, I have no idea why, but I believe you."

Altaïr fought back a grin, wincing as the lacerated muscles tried to move. Malik raised a hand and gently removed Altaïr's fingers from the wound, replacing them with his own.

"It will scar. Stop playing with it."

Altaïr hummed against the foreign touch, fascinated by the sensitivity of his own lips and the complexity of Malik's skin. He was calloused from years of training with swords, each finger rough in a different place. Altaïr imagined those long fingers curled around the hilt of a different sort of blade.

Altaïr pressed his lips experimentally against Malik's skin, reveling in the sharp intake of breath it elicited from his friend. He repeated the action with more confidence, moving from one finger to the next until he had each surface memorized.

"I'm glad you believe me," Altaïr murmured.

Malik jerked his hand back in surprise, but left it raised as though he'd forgotten it the moment it stopped being relevant. The gap between them had shrunk to nearly nothing, and his palm came to rest against Altaïr's chest.

There was a roaring in Altaïr ears that grew with every passing second, growing to a deafening thunder as Malik began to lean forward. It was only a fractional change in position, but his lips brushed lightly against Altaïr's and suddenly it made all the difference in the world. After a moment, Altaïr deepened the kiss and slid an arm around Malik's waist to pull him closer.

They were lost in each other for (hours, days, years) only seconds before footsteps sounded in the hallway outside and reminded them of where they were. Malik's hand, which had buried itself into Altaïr's hair, withdrew abruptly. Altaïr followed Malik's mouth as it fell away from his, heat still clinging to his mind in a desperate sort of urgency.

Malik used the palm still on Altaïr's chest to push some distance between them, and he had just enough time to wipe the blood from his mouth before Rauf rounded the corner, two Sisters in tow.

"This is Sibal and Nathifa. They've agreed to take a look at you if you can promise not to strike them in terror."

Malik was biting at his lower lip, running a hand over the front of his robes and shuffling from foot to foot. Altaïr watched, mesmerized.

"Altaïr?" Rauf's voice was very far away. "Have you lost too much blood already? You look more idiotic than usual."

Malik looked up and caught his stare, holding it for just a moment before coughing and stepping away. He mumbled something about needing to visit the library, and he was gone before anyone could answer.

XxXxX

**A/N: **I got a few comments regarding Umar's sudden demise in the last chapter, so I'm going to address it here! Umar and Ahmad Sofian's deaths are both canon, though I've written them occurring a few years later than in the original. I put a lot of effort into keeping with what happens in the games/books/movies. My goal is for this to fit in seamlessly if you ever go back to play AC again.

**Reviews:**

**Galen Hithwen:** Haha yeah, they both have their own little ways of being there for each other. Altaïr isn't very good at it yet, but he tries! Bless him he really tries. Thanks for the reviews :) Hope you liked this one! **BGtea:** I'm so pleased you stumbled across my little corner of the internets. It's always nice to hear that people enjoyed the beginning of the story, I know it's risky to write kid stuff. Look forward to even more Malik-centric chapters when the story catches up with the games! Thanks for the lovely review :) **Nekokoa:** I was pretty upset while writing Umar's death… but I planned from the start to stick to canon so he had to go :( I'm glad the religious stuff works for you. Thanks for the reviews! **Galactic-toaster: **Oh geez thank you for mentioning the sexual preferences. I also really dislike it when authors go straight through angst-confession-sex-happily-ever-after, with no mention of how confusing the revelation is for most people. Throw in a little religious fanaticism and the closet starts looking very comfortable indeed! Thank you for your lovely review :) I hope you liked this chapter! **Arielsabik101:** If you give me your firstborn, I will name them Rauf. Regardless of gender. Thank you for your nice comments! **Zino:** Haha I know what it's like to have an impossible fic-craving; I'm glad my story successfully filled the void! But wait wait ANOTHER RAUF LOVER? I THOUGHT I WAS ALL ALONE. I wrote such a big part for him because for some reason his hidden face and sexy, lazy voice in the games made me all ardent for his love. I hope I've done your own vision of him justice, especially in this last chapter. Thank you for the lovely review :)


	12. To the Real World

**Assassin's Fortress – Masyaf…**

Research was not what drew Malik to the library. The texts were often old and dusty, the information outdated and the pages crumbling inside their bindings. It was difficult to sort through the many hundreds of tomes, most of which were poorly marked, if at all.

Malik liked the way the words would disappear from the page after a few minutes of reading, replaced instead with images and sounds and experiences he'd never known. He would get lost inside some account of the wars in the West, or else a Brother's retelling of a noble family drama (those all ended the same; with a quick death at the hands of the narrator).

But recently not even his favorite stories could paint so vivid a picture as his imagination. He spent hours buried in their worn passages only to emerge without even the faintest idea of what he'd just read; his head filled with fantasies that were all his own. Eventually he gave up trying to distract himself, content to gaze out the high vaulted windows and drift through his waking dreams undisturbed.

It had been three days since he'd last spoken to Altaïr, a feat which required considerably more effort than he would have expected. Avoiding his friend had revealed to him just how much time the two of them normally spent together. They shared more than just their rooms and lessons; they also took their meals together, arranged to be sent on the same missions (and covered for each other when they failed in their tasks), found one another on days when talking felt necessary, sitting in silence when it was not. Malik was somewhat embarrassed to realize he could not remember whose tunic he was wearing; their clothes had gotten so thoroughly mixed up in Aleppo. When put to the task of ignoring his friend entirely, Malik found he could think of little else.

He rubbed his eyes distractedly, returning to the passages of the text he had laid out in front of him. He had not turned the page in nearly an hour, yet he could not have said what it was concerning or even what the title of the book was. He blinked down at the words _with this we come to understand their motivations_, and saw, _Altaïr will be in the courtyard for weapons training now, I wonder if I can see the courtyard from here…_

A light cough interrupted his musings, and he looked up sharply to find Irfan standing by the shelves across the table.

During their time apart, Irfan's not insubstantial weight had transformed itself from flabby, useless folds to hard, thick muscle. His arms and chest were still absurdly large, but what used to be a purely comical sight now sent a much different message. Irfan looked Malik up and down with sharp dark eyes. _He could still suffocate someone if he sat on them,_ Malik thought indignantly, _and his eyes are still the same... Always searching for a tender spot to shove a sharp stick._

"When I was told you'd returned from Aleppo," Irfan began, "I was expecting not to recognize you. But, alas, you look exactly the same as the day you left."

"And you, Irfan. You are still the prettiest of us all."

Irfan smirked. "I hear you and Altaïr have set a new record for Apprentice missions completed. Does he let you do any of the killings yourself, or do you just fetch him his food?"

_It's usually the other way around. _Malik would not be enticed. "I imagine you hear a great many things while lurking between the shelves."

"Lurking? I've only just walked in," Irfan fingered the spines on the pile nearest him. "I'm doing a bit of research for my next mission, perhaps you can help me?"

Malik tapped the edge of the page he'd been trying to read. _He's hinting at something, and with Irfan it can't be good._ The distraction should have been welcome, but Malik's patience was wearing thin. _How long has he been standing there, watching me? _He remembered his Brothers' nickname for Irfan when they were younger. The Mouse, they'd called him. For all his bulk, Irfan's store of sensitive information never seemed to dry up.

"My target is a slippery fellow," Irfan continued when Malik made no reply, "a slave trader who specializes in young boys. He does most of his business in a small fishing village south of Acre. Haifa, I believe it's called."

Malik's jaw twitched. "Haifa is a city, not a village."

"Yes, a city, my mistake. I was hoping you could tell me where to begin my search. There really is no reason for me to comb through the entire city for a single slave gallery when you no doubt recall where it is."

"How would I know where to find your slaver?"

Irfan gave him an innocent look, but his eyes betrayed the vicious precision with which he delivered his next phrase. "One such as yourself… I assumed you and your brother would be familiar with such unsavory characters."

Malik glared at him. _Are you calling me a slave, Irfan? Or is this insult so convoluted that not even I can decipher its meaning?_ Malik seethed inwardly at the implication. There was absolutely no truth to what Irfan was suggesting, but the words still stung.

"I cannot help you," he said curtly.

Irfan sighed, straightening. "Just as well. Better I rely on our maps than your memory."

Malik watched in disgust as Irfan disappeared into the maze of bookshelves, leaving him alone with his thoughts once again. Irfan had always been mean-spirited, but there was something new to his demeanor that his size did not explain. Malik could have easily ignored such petty mind games before, but there was an unpleasant stench to this last exchange still clinging to the back of his mind.

Had he not grown so accustomed to the library's acoustics, he may have missed the sound of approaching footsteps coming from behind him. Had he not grown so accustomed to those _particular_ footsteps, he may have turned around to see who it was.

"Altaïr," he said, eyes still fixed on the spot Irfan had last occupied.

"Malik," Altaïr replied amiably. "Should I have armed myself before coming to find you?"

Malik tried to relax his posture. "Don't be ridiculous."

Altaïr slid into the seat beside him. "Is your book really so upsetting? I will burn it for you if the contents are what offends."

"No, but I appreciate your eagerness to be of assistance." Altaïr smiled at that, and Malik felt his own muscles responding in kind.

"Perhaps I will burn it anyway," Altaïr shrugged noncommittally. "Perhaps I'm the one offended."

"You? You don't even know what I'm reading."

"I know that you find it more interesting than me."

_Impossible. If such a book existed, I would have found it and I would have clung to it for dear life_. "Of course I find it more interesting than you."

"Oh? And what is this miraculous book about?"

_I couldn't tell you even if you held a knife to my throat._ "It's ah, part of a longer series. I cannot explain it to someone who hasn't read the previous volumes."

"I see."

"The narrative is contradictory in most passages."

"I can see how that might occupy most of your time."

"Yes. It does, so if you wouldn't mind–"

Altaïr placed a hand over his, slowly moving the two of them until the book fell closed with a snap. Malik felt some distant remorse at having lost his page; he would have no way of finding it again and no way of knowing which pages he'd already read.

"I _do _mind."

Malik slipped his hand out from beneath Altaïr's limp hold, uncomfortably aware of how far into each other's space they'd begun to lean. Altaïr made no move to stop him as he got shakily to his feet and grabbed a random book off the table. He turned towards the towering shelves.

"Orders arrived this morning," Altaïr said evenly, as though nothing had happened. "There is a small company of Christian knights and squires stationed just South of Masyaf. Al Mualim wishes for us to go see them and learn what we can of their skills. An Informant with experience in the Jerusalem courts will take us to them at midday."

Malik nodded quickly, still scanning the shelves. Altaïr took a deep breath and added, "If it's your wish to remain here, I will make up some excuse for you."

"I'm hardly infirm."

"That isn't what concerns me."

Malik slipped the book between two larger tomes. "There is absolutely no reason for me not to go." He turned around in time to see Altaïr struggling to fight down a laugh and was of half a mind to take the book down again to throw at him. It was either that or return to the position they were in earlier, perhaps with less space between their chairs.

Malik shook his head. _Is there no way out of this?_ He needed more time to evaluate the situation, and it was clear he could not think properly with Altaïr in proximity.

"Midday, then," he said, and with one last look at the source of his troubles, Malik walked hurriedly from the library. He was barely watching his step when he crashed into the back of an unsuspecting Brother. A quick apology was on the tip of his tongue when he recognized Irfan's massive frame, and his courtesy fled immediately. _I thought I heard him leave,_ Malik thought as he pushed past and out the door, _he is more like a rat than he ever was a _mouse_._

XxXxX

Their Informant guide was dressed completely in white, as was the custom, and the lower half of his face was concealed behind a grey mask. It was an oddly respectful gesture, as he'd not bothered with the rest of his cowl. His left ear was missing, and Altaïr could tell a couple of his teeth had come loose by the whistles littering his speech.

"They clothe themselves in steel and it shines like stars," he told them through a barely intelligible accent, "calling out enemies they can't no longer even see. Their helms block out their sight on both sides… a hefty price to pay for the protection of such empty heads."

He was certainly not without bias. Altaïr wondered how he'd managed to conceal himself at court. He was very prolific with his opinions of the Christian knights, in a way that suggested a lack of subtlety and appropriate respect.

"See how they lumber along on stiff legs. The squires 'specially, weak half-wits most of them, can hardly keep their sword arms up. If it weren't for the resting, they would all be dead by now. And look, look, one of them is sitting down already," the Informant laughed thickly. "A fool! Sitting in the sun instead of moving a few feet to the shade."

Altaïr closed his eyes; glad that their group had chosen a shaded spot to watch the knights and squires go about their routine. It was taking longer than he'd thought to get a count on the little encampment, as the Christians were taking turns going to and from their tents for water and food.

"Them knights are a different story. At least some of _those_ aren't stupid. If we're lucky they'll have a match and you'll see how they manage them big swords of theirs. I've had to fight a few of those brutes myself." The Informant crossed his arms over his chest, and the yellowing underarms of his white robes looked like someone had made water on them. "No fun, I will say that much. No fun at all. It's them two-handed swords. If you catch a man strong enough to swing it half-fast, you better not get in 'is way because it'll cut your bloody leg right off." He illustrated this with a cutting gesture across his thigh.

Altaïr looked over at Malik, whose gaze had not left the tents at all during the two hours they'd been sitting there watching. _Eventually he will want to speak to me about it. I was so close this morning._

But they were not alone, and Altaïr knew better than to risk goading Malik in front of the others. Nine of them had left the fortress at midday to take stock of the forces outside their town; mostly younger Brothers who had never seen knightly attire and weaponry before. Rauf was busy training with Labib, and though Irfan had come along at first, he'd disappeared somewhere along the way and had not rejoined them since.

"That one over there is wearing a breast plate too small for him. Maybe he grew fat on sweet wine in Jerusalem. It is always this way with the old ones. But he is not so smart. The heat is worse for him under there, and his red skin pokes through around the neck and shoulders."

"I could kill him from here," declared a young novice.

The Informant scoffed. "And then you would have all of his friends running after you. If there's one thing these knights are good at, it's taking up the cause of another, and dying for it."

"Is that why they've come?"

"No," the Informant said, suddenly serious. "They hear about Saladin, probably, and are coming to reinforce the border."

The novice frowned. "But Saladin is not here."

"Not here, no, so where did he go? He has an army to take care of; men on their feet and men on horses and horses pulling provisions. He moves slowly, or not at all. Where does he take them?"

"A city," Malik answered. "To restock and confer with his generals."

The Informant nodded. "And where is the nearest city?"

"Tortosa."

"And who rules in Tortosa?"

No one knew, so the Informant clarified. "Who rules the ruler of Tortosa?"

"The King," another novice piped up. "The King rules over every city in Tripoli!"

"Yes. The King hears news of Saladin moving through his lands undeterred, so he decides to send his knights to keep a careful watch."

Altaïr snorted. If these knights had been sent to keep watch, they were doing a very poor job of it. The novices had not been entirely careful in their approach, but they had yet to encounter any patrols. In fact the more he studied their movements, the more uncertain Altaïr was of who was in command. None of the knights seemed all that attentive of the squires, and the squires did not defer to anyone before taking their meals or having naps in the grass.

"Why aren't they doing anything interesting?" the novice complained.

"Laziness," a second novice supplied.

"That one is doing some sort of dance," another said, pointing.

"Where?"

"Him there with the spear."

There was a moment of silence as the novices all squinted into the distance, searching for the spear-wielding squire.

"I see him! Next to the tent."

"He keeps hopping around!"

"I don't think that's a dance…"

"It looks like he has to–"

The novices recoiled as a thin trail of liquid fell down the squire's leg and formed a small puddle in the dirt. The squire's head whipped frantically from side to side in search of witnesses.

"How long will they stay here?" the first novice asked, his nose crinkling in disgust.

"However long they are needed," the Informant replied. "You will have many more chances to see them before they leave. Not to worry."

The novice was not appeased. "I do not want to come back here, they're disgusting. What can we learn from these oafs?"

The Informant chortled. "Just enough to defend against their advances should they choose to march North. Come, we'll return to Masyaf before it gets dark."

Altaïr lingered as the novices filed past, trying to appear preoccupied as he waited for Malik to bring up the rear. He made sure to keep a respectful distance between them as they followed the group, only allowing their shoulders to brush occasionally and without comment.

Neither of them noticed when Irfan came sauntering out from a side street, ignoring the novices completely and heading straight for the Informant. If the novices in his way hadn't moved to let him pass, he probably would have knocked them right over. Altaïr had only a moment to feel ashamed of his poor vigilance before Irfan started talking.

"There's a stoning," he announced, waving vaguely in the direction he'd come.

The Informant stopped walking. "A citizen?"

"I don't know, but it seems everyone in the village has gathered against him."

"A murderer then, or a molester of children." The Informant didn't seem all that interested.

"I want to see," a novice said, and Irfan latched onto it immediately.

"Have you never witnessed one before?" he asked, an edge of condescension in his voice. "They can last a very long time, you'll get bored before the end."

The novice puffed out his chest. "I saw some boys kill a cat once with stones."

"This will be different," the Informant sounded unsure. "Worse." He had been tasked to escort his charges to the Christian encampment, and he would get in trouble if they wandered for too long.

Irfan turned to him, and his height advantage was evident in their opposing postures. "It is our duty to rid the world of evil men," he said. "They must understand what kind of atrocities even the common people cannot ignore."

The Informant looked ready to protest further, but he wilted quickly beneath Irfan's glare. Only then did Altaïr remember that Irfan was training to become an Informant himself, and that he probably knew their guide personally. _He has enough damaging information to get whatever he wants out of this man_, Altaïr realized.

"Very well," the Informant acquiesced, "but we return at nightfall."

Irfan nodded, agreeing easily to the compromise that wasn't really a compromise. Of course they would leave by nightfall. A stoning never lasted that long.

They only needed Irfan to lead them halfway; the screams of the crowd were evident and persistent from two streets away. A jumble at first, but growing slowly more coherent as they neared.

Malik stopped short as they rounded the corner.

"Allah condemn you!"

"A beast! A beast in my city!"

There were at least thirty people gathered in the square, but none of them turned to look at the new arrivals. Their faces were drawn immutably towards the front of the crowd where a single man stood cowering before them, naked.

"Swine!"

"Sinner!"

Someone in the crowd was yelling out pieces of scripture, though their recitation was poor and disjointed, and Altaïr didn't recognize the verse. "But his people gave no other answer but this: They said, 'Drive out the followers of Lut from your city: these are indeed men who want to be clean and pure!'"

The man's arms were bruised and bloody, and when he moved them away from his face his eyes were wild with desperation. Altaïr cringed inwardly.

This was not the sort of death the Assassins were taught to deliver. It was messy and prolonged, with pain and hatred at its core. These were acts of passion that doomed an unsuspecting individual from time to time but rarely targeted anyone of consequence.

"Your death is a justice!"

"Return to the Devil!"

Altaïr frowned. The majority of the crowd was shouting in Arabic, but there were a few who yelled their insults in French, and others who were shouting in a language he didn't recognize.

A well-aimed throw caught the man on the leg, and he cried out as his thigh split open on impact. He dropped to one knee as blood streamed down into the dirt.

More voices were rising in recitation, this time in French. "Do you not know that the wicked will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: Neither the sexually immoral nor idolaters nor adulterers!"

Altaïr squinted at a few of the more vocal women in the front, who held no stones but were showering enough spit to make up for it. Nearly half of them were foreigners, with pale skin and peculiar clothing. _What crime is so grave as to have Muslims and Christians fighting on the same side?_

The first stone to connect with the man's head raised a roar from the crowd. A renewed fervor gripped them as the first drops of blood dripped past the man's hairline and into his eyes.

"Condemn the abomination!"

"_Loty! Loty!_"

"Sodomite!"

Malik turned away from the spectacle abruptly, ignoring Altaïr questioning look and moving quickly back up the street. A growing sense of panic in Altaïr's gut seized and blamed the stoning and the wailing of those miserable old banshee widows for his immediate compulsion to race after his friend.

The words of the Qur'an rose in screams from behind. "And his people gave no answer but this: they said, 'Drive them out of your city: these are indeed men who want to be clean and pure!' For ye practice your lusts on men in preference to women!"

Malik was walking very fast. Fast enough for Altaïr to suspect he did not wish to be followed. Not that it mattered; he cared too much about making sure Malik wasn't leaving him for good to be more subtle about it. Still, he never would have caught up had they not crossed paths with Irfan, who was hanging back from the commotion in the shade of an abandoned weaver's stall. Malik only stopped for an instant, but something significant passed between them as their eyes met. The moment was gone before Altaïr could decipher it, and Malik was moving again.

Irfan smirked at Altaïr as he sped past. "Did you enjoy the show?" he called tauntingly.

They were already halfway up the mountain path by the time Altaïr finally caught up with Malik, grabbing at his arm in a desperate attempt to get him to slow down. "Malik, what–"

Malik wrenched his arm free and continued his ascent, the Fortress growing with every step they took. Altaïr tried again, this time without touching.

"Are you ill?" Altaïr threw out lamely, but he hoped Malik would be more tempted to deny an untruth than reveal what was really bothering him.

No such luck.

"Is it what they were calling out?" Altaïr felt sick asking with Malik's back to him, unable to read his reaction. He at least knew it was the right question from the immediate lurch in Malik's stride.

They passed unhindered under the iron gates, and though the courtyard was empty, Altaïr felt the presence of each Brother within the walls as though it were an invasion. He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. "It was just a stoning, Malik. It happens all the time." _This one was different though, and he knew even before I did what it was about. _"Say something so I know you haven't gone deaf!"

Malik's reproach was immediate. "Stay away from me."

"But–"

"_Stay away from me!_"

They entered the Fortress and Malik took a sharp left towards the living quarters. Altaïr was relieved when he recognized the route which lead to their room. They would have some privacy, at least, in this part of the Fortress.

Altaïr tried again once their door was in sight. "Will you speak now?"

"There is nothing to discuss."

Altaïr made another grab for his arm, but Malik was already yanking the door open with enough force to pull it from its hinges. "You cannot ignore me forever." Altaïr insisted.

Malik didn't seem to hear him, face frozen in disbelief.

Kadar sat cross-legged on his bed, grinning from ear to ear. "Hello, Brother. Have you missed me?"

XxXxX

**A:N/ **People ask me what projects I'm working on these days and I say 'a book', and they ask 'cool, what about?' and my strategic reply is 'it's the story of two child soldiers in 12th century Syria'. Somehow, _It's a homoerotic love story between two characters from Assassin's Creed_ seems a little bit more information than they bargained for. I have yet to receive further questions :)

**Reviews:**

**Nekokoa: **Yup, I finished Revelations! Still not sure how I feel about it, especially the lack of Malik :( I will remedy that in this story haha. Thanks for the review! You can look forward to more kissing 3 **Uccan**: I already answered this awesome review on DA (because I couldn't even believe it. I've been watching you there so long), so all I will say here is one thing: I LOVE YOU TOO. AND YOUR HAIR. GOOD LORD. **Arielsabik101: **The writer gets to forgive reviewers their lack of flowing sentence structure :P Have no worries. It is 5am for me and I should _really_ not be editing this goddamn chapter anymore. Thank you for the lovely review :) **Naien543:** Thank you for the review! I'm glad you like it :)


	13. True, Not Permitted

Kadar's eyes were alight with passion when he spoke of his adventures in the South. His hands moved fluidly through the air with each description; stories punctuated by laughter or a grin too wide to speak through.

Altaïr watched as the tension drained from Malik's shoulders. He took in the sudden appearance of his brother first with surprise, then relief, and now a calm that seemed to lull him into speechlessness. They sat on the floor in the center of the room, leaving Altaïr to his bed in the corner, all but forgotten.

"Our letter from Masyaf arrived only a day after the first attack," Kadar explained when pressed for details. "But we were in Acre by then, and still loaded down with books to be delivered to the Jerusalem bureau." He jumped abruptly. "I nearly forgot! I brought you something… Rauf as well."

Malik spared a quick look to Altaïr while his brother fished around inside a bulky cloth sac. It was the only new item to have appeared since Altaïr was last inside the room, and he reassessed his surroundings more carefully; the mess, the piles of books, the discarded weapons. Rauf had never been eager to bury his head in written words, and he certainly would never think to clean up after someone else. Altaïr realized uneasily that this was now more Rauf and Kadar's room than it was his and Malik's.

"Here it is," Kadar said, tugging a large, leather-bound book into view and proffering it to his brother. "The Historia Regum BritanniaebyGeoffrey of Monmouth."

Altaïr made a face, and he caught the puzzled look that Malik quickly hid behind a smile. He was not the only one, and Kadar laughed it off easily. "It is not so boring as it sounds. I translated one of them already." He slid a finger along the edge of the pages until it caught on a protruding piece of cloth, slipping the pad of his thumb inside to pull the book open to the right place. "The legend of King Arthur. I thought it would be one you might like."

"I have never heard of it," Malik said, intent on the pieces of loose parchment in which his brother's carefully translated words stood in lopsided lines.

"He was once King of Britain, touched by magic and the love of a most beautiful woman." Kadar waggled his eyebrows at Malik's huff. "My description does not do it justice. There is tragedy towards the end, though I will not reveal any more before you've had a chance to read the text for yourself."

"Good of you. What of the magic?"

"He keeps a wizard as councilor, and a magic sword at his side always. Excalibur which he pulled out of stone to prove himself a King and was later thrown into the water upon his death."

Altaïr felt a stab of annoyance at the unencumbered curiosity taking root in Malik's eyes. The brothers were bent towards each other, as though to hatch some conspiracy. _A single word of swords from the lips of his brother and I am worth less than a feather molted off a dying eagle, _he thought bitterly.

"Why into the water?" Malik asked, oblivious to the dark thoughts of his friend.

"His knights feared it would fall into the wrong hands, so they gave it to a witch who hid it beneath the waves. Lost forever."

Altaïr snorted, and both brothers turned to him sharply. Malik fixed him with a glare, and Altaïr met the look with a challenge of his own. _You cannot ask me to leave you alone. Not until we have properly spoken_. Kadar at least had the decency to look embarrassed. "My apologies, Altaïr. We should turn the subject onto more common areas of interest. What of Adha?"

"Departed with Saladin," Altaïr replied. "To give word on his movements and warn us should he seek to return for more blood."

Kadar frowned. "That is… unsettling. Will she be all right?"

"Yes," Altaïr snapped, and he saw Malik grimace at his tone. "Her task is only to spy and report," he continued more calmly. "She is well equipped for such. Mentally and physically."

Kadar seemed to chew on his words, fingers twisting anxiously on his lap. "If I had known, I might have taken a detour to see her. Just to be sure."

"Tell me of the bureaus," Malik cut in abruptly, turning away from Altaïr. His shoulders were back to their original stiffness, though Altaïr doubted it had anything to do with him this time.

Kadar seized upon the distraction with a rush of breath. "There were many and more. Some were quiet and barely standing, others had walls thick as the fortress and enough Brothers to overrun a city. In Acre I had only a hour's rest each night before a new problem would require my attention. An Informant would arrive with fresh news from the harbor, or else a Brother would stumble inside near-death. Jabal was the bureau leader there, and he was like a man possessed. I complain of lack of sleep, but I don't think he gets any at all.

The bureaus were all hidden in plain sight and invisible to the common people. Men would walk in front of our door at night and speak in whispers, thinking themselves in an abandoned alley or deadened street corner. I heard such scandals of debauchery that would have you laughing just to hint at them." Kadar gripped his brother's arm tightly. "And we had nearly reached Haifa, Malik. Do you remember it?" His gaze turned wistful.

Malik's mouth twitched in annoyance. "I remember it as it was eight years ago."

"We must return there some time soon," Kadar urged giddily. "I wonder if our old home still stands. The graves–"

Malik shot a quick glance to Altaïr, expression stricken. "No. Yosef took us away from that place." There was something urgent about his tone that Altaïr could not decipher. "_Our father_ wanted to bring us here because nothing of our old life remains."

Kadar seemed to pick up on it as well, and he backtracked quickly. "I only meant that… we could revisit the city, and the old markets," he fumbled, and an awkward silence gripped the room. Altaïr looked between them skeptically. "I wonder if they still sell smoked fish by the docks," Kadar finished lamely.

"That was always your favorite," Malik said softly, and some of the tension drained away.

There was a loud knock at the door, startling the three of them shamefully. "Altaïr!" barked a voice from right outside. Altaïr made no answer, and there were three swift kicks to the base of their door. "Altaïr!" they insisted.

Malik and Kadar were staring at him expectantly, though Kadar's look was more curious where Malik's was stubbornly accusing. _How was I to know a banshee would come calling?_ Altaïr was sorely tempted to ignore the summons, but he doubted their old wooded door would survive much more abuse, and he could see Malik's patience wearing dangerously thin. _Never a good sign_.

Altaïr opened the door just as a fist came careening towards the frame. Jamal stood in their doorway, looking sour. "I heard you the first time," Altaïr snarled, taking care to block Jamal's view into the room. "What do you want?"

The skinny boy set his shoulders. "I have a message."

"From who?"

"From Abbas."

Altaïr paused, unsure of how to react. Abbas had been locked inside his cell for nearly a week since the incident in the courtyard, and there was no word yet on how long Abbas' sentence in the dungeons would last. Attacking a Brother was a serious crime, in direct violation of the Three Tenants, and Altaïr did not relish the punishments it entailed. Masters who betrayed their Brothers out of cowardice or greed were sometimes put to death. Or worse. Altaïr did not wish to have this conversation in front of his friends, and he exited the room completely, shutting the door behind him. He gave Jamal what he hoped was his most threatening glare. "Well? Spit it out."

Jamal smirked. _He's caught sight of my curiosity and now he'll want to bargain,_ Altaïr thought scathingly. _And I'll break his fingers when he tries._"Your lip is healing well, Altaïr," Jamal said. "The scar is a definite improvement to the mule's face you used to have."

Altaïr stared at him. _Or maybe he's just too stupid to realize the opportunity._"What does the traitor want?" Altaïr pressed, willing to let the insult slide if it meant hearing the message without getting his hands dirty.

"Abbas wishes for several things," Jamal said, his voice dropping to a more business-like tone. "First, he wishes for your health. Second, your happiness." Jamal paused, and Altaïr knew from the look of pained concentration on his face, Jamal was quoting Abbas' words precisely. "And third, Abbas wants you to know that at the moment your happiness reaches its peak, when you have everything a man could desire and everything to lose, he will be waiting to take it all from you. As you did him."

XxXxX

The Christian knights _had_ moved further North.

They'd crept up some time during the night and set up camp outside the outer walls of Masyaf. To the dismay of the many villagers living under the protection of the Assassins, this could only mean one thing. The Christians were closing in on the Fortress, spurned by the growing threat of Saladin's Muslim army and the seemingly unpredictable will of the Order.

Despite rumors of heated arguments in the Grand Master's private library, Al Mualim would not consent to taking bold action against the invaders. Instead he had organized a small rotating cell of scouts and watches around the village's borders to keep abreast of any further developments.

It made sense, Malik reasoned, to use these bumbling fools as a source for information on the capital. Birds baring news from Jerusalem were few and far between, and with the threat of war looming on the horizon once again, fresh information was vital.

Altaïr, Malik, Abbas and Adha would have made up the first group of scouts. They were the most advanced trainees for their age and had already taken on such assignments in the past. However, Abbas was still confined to his cell, and Adha had been sent away from them. Malik had cornered the Master in charge of dispatching the scouts with a single-minded efficiency. Kadar should come with them as a replacement; it would be a good opportunity for him to see the enemy first hand, and he would learn plenty in the presence of two Apprentice Assassins. The Master had agreed so long as an Instructor went along as well.

And so late the next day, as their group took a meandering route towards their target position, Kadar led the way with optimistic chatter, with Malik at his side and Rauf just behind. Altaïr took up the rear, a silent, brooding presence ever since his conversation with Jamal the day before.

They reached the outskirts of the village and relieved the Brothers already on duty, exchanging a few bits of advice in passing.

"Watch out for the smell," one of them warned. "Be sure to hold your breath should an easterly wind blow in."

It turned out to be fairly uneventful. For the first hour they were stubbornly vigilant, keeping to their positions and hardly speaking a word. The second hour was filled with stifled complaints and Kadar's endless fidgeting. By the third hour they had given up their rigid discipline, opting instead to elect a member of the team as watch for fifteen minutes at a time while the others huddled in the shade of a leaning tree.

The grass was dry and prickly, but it felt good to sit down, and Malik basked in the boundless contentment at seeing his brother so nearby. Kadar sat with his back to the rough bark, eyes watching the slow current of clouds across the sky. Rauf was sprawled out between them, and if it weren't for his occasional snickering, Malik might have believed him to be asleep. Altaïr had volunteered to take the first watch. He stood stock-still against the tiny puffs of breeze that drifted past, rustling his robes and the stray hairs peaking out from beneath his cowl.

Malik knew things were still dangerously strained between them. He anticipated their stilted conversations and lingering, loaded looks; the awkward tension that had accumulated to near unbearable measures in the days leading up to _the incident_. He understood the consequences of his actions, and how his feelings could betray him at any time if he didn't squash them immediately.

He had fully expected for Altaïr to resist this. To continue to pursue their non-existent flirtation until somebody discovered them and gave them over to Al Mualim. Malik felt a cold horror grip him at the thought. They would be stoned on the street with commoners cursing their souls, and he would have to cut himself off from Altaïr completely in order to avoid such an inevitability.

But Altaïr hadn't spoken a word to him since the incident with Jamal, despite Malik's questioning gaze upon his return. Malik had bitten his tongue around the questions he immediately wished to ask, settling instead for the vague and dismissive answers that his brother's polite inquiries elicited. Altaïr had paced their room for a few minutes, radiating anger and frustration, then he'd fled, rejoining them only a few seconds before they'd left the main gates.

Malik's watch passed without occurrence, and he hardly noticed as the time trickled by. The knights and squires spent the day picking their teeth and spitting into the accumulating mud. Their horses whinnied and their laundry line collapsed. A thick-chinned knight and his tittering friend stole extra rations from the supply tent, while three stable-hands threw dice onto an overturned chest. If they were receiving any messages from their King in Jerusalem, it was certainly not announced to anyone in sight. The command tent remained securely closed, and no letters passed inside as far as Malik could tell.

When he returned to their shaded spot at the end of his shift, Altaïr strode past him without a glance. Rauf looked up lazily from his spot on the ground. "I thought it was my turn after yours," he said.

"It was," Malik confirmed, watching as Altaïr returned to his silent vigil.

Rauf dropped his head back onto the grass, clearly content to let Altaïr do his work for him.

"Do you think he will do mine as well?" Kadar asked.

Rauf scoffed. "Absolutely not. Why would he do that?"

"Well, why is he doing it for you?"

"Because he _likes_ me." Rauf said. "And here I thought everyone knew. Worst kept secret in all of Masyaf."

Kadar pulled up a clump of grass and sprinkled it over Rauf's face. "Are you so sure of that, Brother? I would think you were a bit low on the ladder for the Great Eagle."

Rauf scowled, blowing blades of grass out of his mouth. "That just proves how long you've been away."

There was a rustle in the bushes to their right, and two older Brothers strode into their little clearing. Malik recognized one of them; Fahd or Faheem, he couldn't quite remember. "You are relieved of your duties here," Fah-something said, voice projecting enough to include Altaïr.

"We were told to stay in groups of four," Malik interjected.

"Then two of you will remain with us," the other Brother countered easily.

Malik nodded stiffly. "Rauf, would you mind staying here?" he asked. "I still have much to discuss with my brother."

"Go ahead. I am comfortable here anyway." Rauf shot a glare at Kadar. "Certainly more so without the threat of dirt falling into my eyes."

Kadar ignored him, turning to his brother with a pleading look that made Malik brace for what he knew immediately would be an unwanted request. "But Malik, this will be my first real mission since I left with Rashid. I would see it through."

Malik doubted his brother saw any real credibility in a simple scouting mission, and knew this was more likely a clever way for his brother to get out of answering more questions about his travels in the South. _I'm his older brother,_ Malik thought defensively._ My duty is to look after him and make sure he avoids trouble._

"You and Altaïr can go back," Kadar continued. "Unless the Great Eagle cannot bare to be parted from Rauf for even a moment."

"You would do better to spend less time thinking up nicknames and more time learning by example," Altaïr ground out, tramping back into view.

Kadar immediately clammed up, and Malik was left with no choice but to leave the clearing behind to follow Altaïr up the sloping path to the fortress. They were moving at an uncomfortably fast pace, and by the time the main gates came into view Malik's heart was pounding painfully inside his chest.

"Slow down," Malik demanded.

Altaïr's stride eased only fractionally, just enough to allow Malik to catch up before taking off again. They were past the gates and quickly covering the courtyard's quiet expanse.

"Where are you rushing off to?" Malik asked, unable to heed his own advice and subdue his desire for answers. His treacherous need to know what could possibly have Altaïr in such a state of unease was gripping his mind with a complete disregard for common sense. _He could be in danger. He refuses to look me in the eye. . He could have put us all in danger…_

"Nowhere. I just need to think."

Malik laughed breathlessly before he could catch himself. "Think? Have I died and gone to Heaven? For once, he thinks before he acts." Malik sobered at the idea. "Does this have anything to do with Jamal?"

"Yes. No. Jamal is an imbecile."

"Normally I would agree, except it seems he's managed to make you quite angry this time."

Altaïr stopped in his tracks, turning to face Malik in the deserted corridor. He rubbed anxiously at his face before speaking. "Can we go somewhere private?" he asked quietly, and Malik couldn't help the sudden knots tying themselves around his stomach. "Just to talk," Altaïr clarified quickly, as though he'd read Malik's thoughts.

"Where?" Malik asked, surprised at how steady his voice sounded.

Altaïr didn't reply, inclining his head instead towards a narrow set of steps to their left. They made their way up the stairs at a more reasonable pace, and Malik followed without comment as Altaïr led them through a complicated series of passageways Malik had never seen before. _The South Tower,_ Malik guessed, once they'd passed a window that looked out across the mountains. _I didn't know anyone still used this part of the Fortress._

Altaïr eventually came to a halt in front of an unmarked door, its unremarkable surface only slightly bent with age. Malik studied it carefully, though he knew at a glance that he'd never laid eyes on it before. Altaïr looked nervous as he placed a hand on the curved handle, and Malik stood fascinated and intrigued by this sudden shyness.

What lay beyond came as a slight disappointment. It was an old bedroom, abandoned, if the layer of dust were any indication, with an empty cabinet left partially open and a scabbard dotted with rust hanging from the wall. There was a stuffed bed against the far corner, the only window in the room casting shadows across the pillows.

"Whose room is this?" Malik asked, walking over to the scabbard to touch its faded engravings.

Altaïr stayed rooted to the spot, watching him. "I never knew."

"A Master's quarters," Malik judged, indicating the single bed.

"Yes, I suppose."

Malik turned back to his friend, determined to finish his inquiry despite the thrum of something _else_ that pervaded the room. "What did Jamal say to you?"

Altaïr didn't answer right away, his gaze unwavering now as it followed the curve of Malik's mouth, then fell lower over his chest. And lower. "Nothing. He reminded me of my priorities."

Malik felt dizzy, wishing he had something in his hands with which to occupy himself. To distract from the growing look of hunger on Altaïr's face. "Your priorities?" Malik asked thickly.

"I want to talk about what happened." Altaïr's eyes were back on his, fierce and challenging as he took a deliberate step forward.

"What–? No, Altaïr. That is done."

"We cannot be done. We never even began."

Malik raised a hand between them, and immediately regretted the symmetry it drew to their last encounter. "_There is nothing to begin,_" he insisted.

Altaïr grinned, and Malik could remember the feel of that smile as it pressed against his skin. "Nothing is true, everything is permitted."

Malik let out a frustrated sigh, curling his hand into a fist and bumping it against Altaïr's chest. "But it _is_ true. What I feel for you is _true_, Altaïr, and it will never be permitted. Not by Allah, or Al Mualim, or anyone."

Altaïr's gaze was intense, searching Malik's face. There was a question there, but Malik did not wish to dwell on it any longer. He returned the stare, hoping his friend would see the sincerity in his eyes. And then, all of a sudden, Altaïr's lips were back, pushing firmly against his and sending dizzying heat straight to Malik's head. When they parted for breath it was by increments, eventually giving enough space to see into each other's eyes.

"If you want me to stop, push me aside," Altaïr whispered. "We will forget what passed between us, then and now." When Malik said nothing, he brushed his mouth against the hollow of his temple. "Or now." He traced the line of Malik's cheekbone. "Or now." His lips returned to Malik's. "Or–"

Malik reached up and pulled him down, and the rest of his words were swallowed into Malik's mouth. Altaïr kissed him carefully, but it wasn't gentleness Malik wanted, not now, not after all this time, and Malik knotted his fists in Altaïr's robes, pulling him harder against his chest.

Malik felt a bump against his calf as they backed into the bed, and he spared a thought to wonder how they had maneuvered so quickly. "Please," Altaïr whispered into his mouth, and the thought was swept aside. "We can forgo words…Just for tonight–" They fell together onto the old mattress, and he was on top of Malik now, squeezing his wrists and nudging his legs apart with his knee. "Please, Malik."

It was rare enough to hear Altaïr ask for anything, and Malik knew that should he refuse, the request would not be put to him again. But he could not fathom any words of protest, even false ones, and he buried shaking fingers into light brown hair, tugging the body above him closer and gripping Altaïr's legs between his own.

A soft sound of pleasure vibrated from his lips, and he found himself surrendering to the hot wet heat of Altaïr's mouth once again. It was as though a dam had broken, and every bit of anger and desperation Altaïr kept locked tightly inside was poured forth, pushing his tongue into Malik's open mouth, teeth biting ruthlessly at his lower lip.

"I've wanted you so much," Altaïr panted, thumb tracing his jaw. "_So much…_"

They shed their robes with hasty inelegance, falling against one another and laughing breathlessly. Malik caught Altaïr's hand as it smoothed over his shoulder, now bare, turning it to face the palm inwards and pressing soft open-mouthed kisses down his wrist. Heat flared through his body as Altaïr moaned at the simple gesture, shifting closer until they were melded together once again. Altaïr's face descended to his throat, teeth biting at his skin, making its way down to his chest as Malik heaved, panting.

The heat that had begun as a slow simmer was now burning its way through Malik's body, set alight wherever Altaïr touched. Malik moaned as a rough tongue ran over one stiffened nipple. There was nothing in the world that could render him so helpless. He was writhing and shaking.

Altaïr looked up then, eyes intent. His face was flushed, hair wild and lips bruised. He was panting, staring down at Malik in fascination. Malik bit at his lower lip to keep from speaking, holding the gaze in silent command.

Altaïr yielded, lowing his head and biting into Malik's shoulder sharply. He moved further down, as though spurned by the noises each graze of teeth enticed. "Every day I think of doing this…" he growled against Malik's stomach. "And every night." He slid back up, meeting Malik's half lidded gaze with his own. "Do you see what you do to me?" Altaïr ground their hips together. "Do you?"

One of Malik's hands tightened against Altaïr's hip while the other slid to his jaw; pulling their faces together and kissing him harder than ever, tongues tangling, teeth clicking. He was pushing them both further into the bed, sliding their hips in a frantic pace, breaths coming out quick and uneven.

The heat grew unbearable as they clung on to each other, kissing fiercely, until finally the world evaporated and a glorious sensation washed over them, leaving them shaking against one another and gripping at skin hard enough to bruise.

They collapsed together, slick and panting, the air around them humming with the aftermath of what had happened.

"Malik," Altaïr breathed, resting his head against Malik's chest, their bodies still entwined and yet perfectly comfortable.

Malik watched as Altaïr's eyes drifted closed, a deep sleep taking hold. He was clinging to Malik as though he were afraid he might flee. _Why would I wish to escape, __Altaïr, when I finally have you?_ Malik thought dazedly. His fingers tangled back into Altaïr's hair, cut short for convenience but still clinging to sweat. Malik hesitated for a moment, unsure, then leaned in to kiss him; his forehead, his eyes, his cheeks, anywhere he could reach.

Malik breathed deeply, and watched as Altaïr's head rose and fell with each fill of his lungs. He felt sated on heat and pleasure and a foreign sense of contentment he hadn't known himself capable of feeling. He tightened his arms around Altaïr's waist, drifting into a dreamless sleep.

XxXxX

Jamal's steady breaths at his back irked him, and it was with no small measure of relief that they finally reached the entrance to the dungeon. Jamal swayed from foot to foot at the door, hesitating for a moment before fitting a rust-incrusted key into the lock. The door produced an earsplitting shriek as its hinges rotated and slid in place, allowing for a small gap large enough to enter. Jamal touched his torch to the standing lamp inside, flooding their immediate area with a weak, flickering light. Altaïr stepped aside to allow Jamal his quick retreat back up the steps, not once looking back. Altaïr couldn't blame him for his eager flight. The short, tight corridors of the lower levels made his mind turn to desperate places, and the urge to get out and back into the fresh air was overwhelming.

He forced himself to step forward. There was barely enough light to see his own hands in front of him, but he knew he was close. Just a few more paces and he would see the fires outside the cells.

There were sounds coming from up ahead; a hacking cough which echoed across the walls, and the faint slap of wet clothes on stone.

"Who is it? Who's there?" The voice coming from the cell nearest him was strained and rough, the words provoking another cough. "Is that you, Altaïr? Come closer."

Altaïr took a tentative step closer, automatically adjusting his pace so as to make as little noise as possible. He aligned his body with the row of lamps along the wall, putting the fire's glare between himself and the cells beyond.

"Jamal told me he would deliver you to me. It took him days. Three days. But here you are at last. Step into the light so that I can see your face."

Altaïr drew himself up. "I have come only to deliver a message."

There was clamoring from somewhere inside, and Abbas appeared at the bars of his cell, knuckles white against the old steel and eyes searching blindly for what lay beyond his little fire. "Come closer, coward! Or did my blade disfigure you so terribly as to shame you forever!"

Altaïr advanced, closing the distance in one quick stride and startling its only inhabitant badly. Abbas chocked and withdrew his hands.

"I have come only to deliver a message," he repeated, quietly this time. "Know this, Abbas. I have only three wishes." Abbas' eyes widened as he recognized his own words. "First, for your health. Second, for your happiness. And third," he paused, delighting in the way Abbas' breath hitched. "I wish for you to understand that if at any time your health or happiness should interfere with my own, I will take them away from you.

"And you will have nothing."

XxXxX

**A/N:** Feels so good to be pulling all the plot strings together. This is a fucking Persian rug of a story, guys. I didn't think it would get this crazy when I set out, but I made myself a road map during the hiatus (which is actually less a map now and more _a bible_). Wish I could share all the juicy bits right away. But then no one would put up with the actual story. Kudos to the readers who've already picked up on one of the (hopefully not too subtle) sub-plots.

**Reviews:**

**Blahdeedah: **I accept your proposal under one condition; that we have matching gowns of pale green silk and a weeping willow as our officiator. We will make sweet sweet fanfic under the stars and drink a sip of wine each anniversary, fermenting as each year goes by and culminating to perfection on our shared death bed. Good Lord. Okay. Miyazaki is brilliant! I love his slow descriptive style; it's really compelling and magical. And yes, yes, yes, I think it's silly when stories like this don't confront homophobia. It's an easy/obvious plot device that is both realistic and expected LOL. I hope you liked this chapter, my love! **Simply Anonymous:** Irfan is a tricky bastard. His motivations are complicated and as of yet undisclosed! Thanks for the review. **Zino:** Haha Kadar's not so much a cockblock anymore after this chapter :) You're right to be suspicious of Irfan; he's generally up to no good. Thanks for the review! **Galen Hithwen:** I love writing the dialogue, I find it's the best way to describe their relationships and emotions. Definitely gets the point across without having to over-analyze or explain each thought. My readers are smart enough to read between the lines, tyvm! Irfan gets his just deserts, maybe not right away, but eventually. Scouts honor! **Arielsabik101:** YES, KADAR IS BACK. Hopefully this chapter showed him in satisfactory amounts. I find him tricky to write because he approaches Malik and Altair at completely different angles than they do each other o_O But I enjoyed the challenge, and you can look forward to more Kadar in the future! Thanks for the review :) **Azurenaddou: **I'm really glad you decided to review as well :) It's great to hear from readers who've been with me since the beginning. I thought maybe I'd lost you guys during the hiatus D: I hope you liked this chapter just as much as the others! **Nekokoa:** Thank you for the compliments :) I love adding those little details because I want you guys to see exactly what I'm seeing. Sometimes it takes forever though, and when I can't get it just right I tend to leave it alone for a couple days –shot-. Right now Alty, Malik, Rauf and co. are 17, Kadar is 14. Hope that helps! **Iserial:** Oh yikes, I hope this chapter makes you feel better! You can hold Kadar and Rauf all you want, but I don't think Alty and Malik would agree to being manhandled (unless by each other). Thanks for the review! **jpgFury:** Haha you asked for homoerotic, and here it is :) The research is definitely my favorite part, though it tends to be the most time consuming. Thanks for the review! **EliteEspada:** *tips hat* Thank you and I hope this chapter lived up to your praise :)


	14. End of an Era

**Fortress Courtyard – Masyaf…**

Abbas' hair was matted and greasy, falling an inch below his ears in dark curling strands. He wore no cowl or robes, though he'd been allowed to don a simple grey tunic to protect his modesty before the Order. The expanse of bare skin along his arms and legs was pale and filthy.

"It is an unbearable thing, to lose a father."

Al Mualim paced before them. The arch of the inner fortress rose at his back, cavernous and imposing as it dwarfed their leader and the quivering, shameful display at his feet.

"Worse still to lose him without ever having the chance to fight by his side."

Abbas' head remained lowered. Flanked on both sides by Brothers nearly twice his size, he made no attempt to shake their iron grip upon his arms. Their presence was a display, nothing more, for he would not have had the strength to fight or flee even had his keepers been children.

"The punishment for betraying our Creed is severe for good reason. To attack a Brother, with whom you should share a bond surpassing even that between a father and son, is to turn your back on every one of us."

Malik stood in the back of the crowd, trying his best to ignore Kadar's straining attempts to see over the heads of those standing in front of them. Malik couldn't blame him for feeling agitated; Al Mualim had summoned the Brotherhood to the courtyard that afternoon with no explanation, and they'd waited nearly an hour before Abbas had been escorted out.

"I have meditated on these things in the last few weeks. I have studied our Creed and thought about how best to wield it in these troubled times. Should I condemn young Abbas in the fashion of my predecessors? His life would be forfeit had he been born in the time of Grand Master Hadi, or Khaliq, as I was."

Al Mualim paused in front of Abbas, bending over slightly to brush a chunk of hair out of the boy's eyes. Malik looked away to search the crowd, though he had already checked the area three times and was certain that Altaïr had decided not to join them. Something had happened between Altaïr and Abbas since their confrontation in the courtyard, but any questions Malik asked on the subject were either ignored or skirted with generalities and distractions. _I should have tried harder,_ Malik berated himself. _He should not be able to appease me so easily._

Malik halted his thoughts before they could follow through to their natural conclusion. That particular train of thought usually led to a growing sense of annoyance, and then, embarrassingly, growing arousal. He returned his attention to Al Mualim's judgment, mind carefully blank.

"…will be sent to our Brothers in Aleppo, where he will begin his training anew. If he is successful in his reform and his understanding of our Creed, then he will be free to return home. Should he fail to satisfy his Masters in Aleppo, however, I will take it upon myself to see father and son reunited."

There was a stir in the crowd as the assembled Brothers all shifted their focus from Al Mualim to Abbas, and then to each other. This was an odd judgment. Mercy was not unheard of, but Malik had been expecting banishment or servitude. The idea that Abbas would not only remain in the Order, but could one day return to take his father's place as a sworn Brother…

Unless Al Mualim did not intend for Abbas to reach Aleppo. Malik frowned as the thought occurred to him. He looked over at his brother, who had ceased his persistent bobbing and weaving to scowl at the back of the Brother in front of them.

XxXxX

"And how exactly did you acquire these, little brother?" Malik asked, eying the drinks with suspicion.

Kadar shrugged, not quite hiding the smirk that twisted his face. Rauf snickered. "He has a friend who is more than happy to share a little liquor in exchange for certain… _attentions_."

"Rauf!"

Malik stared at his brother in disbelief. Kadar's smile fell away slowly, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. _He has a friend who… for certain attentions?_ Malik knew how absurd it was to get upset over such a trivial thing; his brother was old enough to feel enticed by the women of Masyaf. _Is it only the women he finds interesting_? Malik cursed himself for not thinking of this particular possibility sooner.

A hand wound its way around his back and plucked the cup of brownish liquor right out of his hand. Altaïr's arm remained pressed against his shoulder for an exaggerated moment; a subtle pressure that pulled Malik out of his thoughts. "That one was mine," Malik protested lightly, turning to face Altaïr instead of his brother.

"Not anymore."

Malik tried to summon his most fearsome glare, but failed completely when Altaïr met his eyes and allowed a sliver of purpose to pour forth. They stayed locked as Altaïr brought the cup to his lips and took a long drink, nearly emptying it entirely.

Another cup found its way into Malik's hands and he turned to face his brother's sheepish expression.

"It's not as Rauf makes it sound. She is a nice girl who needed some help getting her father out of debt some months ago. I helped them and now she returns the favor in whatever way she can manage," Kadar cleared his throat. "Any _decent_ way she can manage."

Rauf cackled and nearly fell off the roof. Kadar handed him his cup once he'd regained his balance, and the drinks successfully silenced any further thoughts on the matter.

The liquor was warm as it slipped passed Malik's lips and down his throat. The burning sensation he felt after the first gulp quickly fell away as a pleasant tingling grew in his limbs, making him feel light-headed. He pressed closer to Altaïr. The air was so warm against his face. When had Kadar and Rauf started arguing?

"Kadar." Rauf's speech took on an unfamiliar lilt as he addressed his Brother. "All I want you to learn from this particular argument is that… You are wrong. And I am right."

"I cannot understand such a thing," Kadar replied, barely intelligible as he took a long pull on his drink.

"Then I will explain it _once again_." Rauf straightened and cleared his throat. "A sword may deliver a heavier attack and further reach, but any competent Brother will tell you that the short blade is a much more effective weapon. It's much quicker and far more…" Rauf frowned, searching for the correct word. "Supple," he finished, nodding.

"I disagree."

"How so? If I remember correctly, you have not yet wielded either one enough to know the difference!"

Kadar stretched his arms out above him, making sure to hit Rauf over the head when he brought them back down to his sides. "Unlike some of my dull-witted companions, it does not take me more than a couple tries with any one weapon to know which I will find more suitable."

"And by that you mean none of them are suitable," Rauf said, giggling. "Because after a couple tries you understand that you cannot wield any of them in equal measure."

Kadar squinted at him, then looked down into his cup. Very slowly, Kadar reached out and tipped the rest of his liquor into Rauf's hair. There were only a few drops left, but Rauf immediately jumped and spluttered as though it had been a bucket of ice. Their bickering ended only when Kadar nearly fell off the roof for a fourth time, and the two found themselves gripping each others' sleeves, laughing.

Looking back and forth between Rauf and his brother was making Malik's head spin uncomfortably, so he gave up and closed his eyes. His cup was empty, and he rolled it between his fingers in lazy circles. There were small ridges in the wood all along the sides and Malik dragged his fingers across them in a half-realized desire to memorize their patterns. It occurred to him suddenly that the shapes were meant to facilitate the grip of inebriated patrons.

"Malik."

He opened his eyes to see Altaïr studying his face intently. Rauf and Kadar were no longer on the roof, and the side of his body that had been facing them was cold against the night air.

"Are you tired? We can return if you want to sleep."

Malik mulled it over. Altaïr was sitting much closer than he remembered, and his upper body kept swaying back and forth as though circling a drain. Every exhale sent a brush of warm air across Malik's face; the smell of liquor and sweat and Altaïr. He shivered.

"I don't know."

Altaïr grinned.

"What?" Malik asked, suspicious.

"Nothing." He wouldn't stop grinning.

"What is it?" Malik's gaze fell to Altaïr's mouth. When was the last time Altaïr had smiled like that?

"Just, the idea of you not knowing something."

Malik huffed, unable to think of an appropriate retort as his insides warmed at the implied compliment. Altaïr must have read something in his expression, because he immediately moved closer and pressed their lips together. Malik sighed into the kiss, slouching against Altaïr and placing a hand to Altaïr's neck. They stayed in that position until Altaïr shifted away; just enough to look Malik in the eye.

"We should go," Altaïr breathed, taking Malik's cup and replacing it with his hand. Immediately the grip turned vise-like, and Malik found himself returning the pressure somewhat desperately. Neither acknowledged the bruising force with which they held each other, but the twinge of pain helped clear Malik's thoughts enough for him to realize their current exposure on the roof.

"Yes. Let's return."

XxXxX

Al Mualim stood with his back to the windows. His robes billowed about his feet as the powerful winds blew through the room, pushing at everyone inside with a persistent, howling cry. Al Mualim did not raise his voice over the din, yet the initiates could hear every word.

"Where other men blindly follow the truth, remember..."

"Nothing is true," they replied in unison.

"Where other men are limited by morality or law, remember..."

"Everything is permitted."

"We work in the dark to serve the light. We are Assassins. Nothing is true, everything is permitted."

The sun had just barely risen above the peek of the mountains, and its morning rays allowed a rare view of Masyaf at its most quiet and peaceful. There would only be a few people awake at this time; only a few lucky enough to witness the final stage of their Assassin vows.

Altaïr advanced towards the window. He breathed in the wind, felt it buffet against his body, felt the sun hitting his face and closed his eyes as he walked out along the plank. He felt the presence of his Brothers on either side of him, silently preparing. An eagle sang out as it flew passed, and Altaïr followed it confidently into the sky.

**END of PART TWO**

XxXxX

**A/N: It's been a long since my last update. Life got in the way of my inspiration and left me feeling a little unsettled. I received a very nice message from Nekokoa, and another from mykonosparadise. They reminded me that I'm not the only one involved in this story and that I really do enjoy writing it. Thanks, loves 3 and to all my other amazing (and patient!) readers.**

**This story is very close to my heart, and I will definitely continue writing it regardless of how many followers I've lost. My writing has improved somewhat since I wrote this last chapter (I hope), so please bear with me as the voice may shift a little in Part Three.**

**Reviews: **

**Uccan: **Thank you, my dear :) I hope the Kadar/Rauf scene in this chapter was satisfactory! Your art is a continued motivator. Long live Maltair! **Hella12345: **Thank you so much for this fat review, it certainly makes up for the other ones going missing :P I really appreciate you taking the time to comment again! I'm glad I managed to do Rauf and Kadar justice (I won't lie, they're my favorite bromance). As for Swami… you'll have to wait and see! I do intend on using as many cannon characters to my advantage as possible, but that's all I'll say for now ;) **Nekokoa: **Thank you for both your reviews, and of course your email was very touching and lovely as well. I hope I can keep up with your hopes for the story! I'm glad you mentioned the homophobia, because it was a part of the story that took me a long time to come to terms with. I don't think homophobia is a necessary part of every slash fic, but for an era piece like this one, I don't know how I could've avoided it! **Galen Hithwen: **Thanks for your review :) I hope I haven't lost your readership! **Xrenfield: **Oh my god, I love that you spoke to your mother about the story! That's such a compliment… I can't even tell you! I hope you haven't given up on this fic just yet. Your mother's prediction is so far off, but that's all I can say for now! Thanks so much for your review. **Iserial: **Thanks for your review, I'm so glad that my story made you feel that way. I hope your still getting update notices on this! :) **Blahdeedah: **My darling, darling lover. Please forgive my absence. I hope to make it up to you in the coming months. (PS: We have a daughter. So. Pay up.) **UchihaNa: **Thanks for your review! I'm glad you enjoyed the story so much, and I hope you continue reading :) **Elomelo: **Thanks for your review, I'm glad I could hit on so many specific emotions; every writer's dream! I hope you continue reading, despite the delay. **TT:** I know it's been a long while, I expect most of my readers assumed I abandoned the story. Thank you for your review. **xVentressx: **Thank you! I plan to continue. **Svraka: **Thanks for your review, it means a lot hearing how much people enjoy the writing, not just the pairing itself. I hope the delay didn't turn you off the story! **Spartan2016: **Here ya go. Thanks for the review. **Mykonosparadise: **Thanks for your gorgeous review. Truly, it's what got me thinking about this fic again. I know it's been a very long time since you left that comment, but I hope you're still willing to read :) I'm really touched that you think this deserves more attention! I love all my readers to bits, but I know my slow progress is hard on most people's attention span haha. Thank you for your beautiful comments 3


	15. PART THREE: Changes

**PART THREE**

**Tortosa Slave Gallery, Tripoli – 1185**

The tables were dripping with spilt alcohol, splattering as tankards scraped against wood and banged together. Men stood or sat, all yelling at one another. The viewing pit had been emptied for the night, with the day's parade of slaves either bought or sent back to their merchants. The viewing balcony above was still swollen with patrons; half were too drunk to make their way home, the others were just getting started.

The door to the outside had reinforced latches, impossible to breach once locked for the night. A sensible thief would have taken one look at those steel hooks and bars and decided to move on. No sense risking your neck for such a place, though the lucrative slave trade in Tortosa made any gallery a tempting target.

Despite its menacing outward appearance, tonight the door was unlocked. Men stumbled out of the gallery at odd intervals, flooding the surrounding street with the sounds of the drunken festivities inside. Sometimes this beacon would draw in another man off the street, curious to see what all the fuss was about. They would venture to the entrance and try the handle to no avail. Given enough struggling, a hidden panel would slide away into the door's face to reveal a hard pair of eyes and an instruction to abandon further attempts at entry. Only when the eyes bobbed in recognition did the door open.

Mohammad Kouri's palm nearly slipped off the handle when he approached the door. He made three attempts at an entry before the eyes revealed themselves. The look lasted only a moment before the door swung open to allow him inside. Light and laughter poured forth, and the harsh shadow cast by Mohammad's bulky form in the doorway cut like a dagger across the road. Someone in the deep recesses of the gallery yelled out to him, "I thought we'd lost you to that whore!" but he didn't shift to address the speaker. Rigid, only his mouth moved. If anyone had been standing with their ear pressed to his lips, they may have heard him whispering. _Behind me. Behind me._

Mohammad Kouri, once a successful landowner, was notoriously cruel to the peasants who worked his fields. Malik thought back to the notes he'd read in Kouri's own hand, only a small portion of the documents presented to the Brotherhood as proof of his misdeeds. Malik had read them all, and thought of them as he pushed his sword smoothly into the man's back and out his chest. It was the last thought he allowed himself as he felt the life fall away from Mohammad Kouri's body; he thought of all the free citizens that this man had tricked into slavery.

One voice had already risen to a scream.

Malik raised a foot to Kouri's back, kicking the crumpled body off his blade and revealing himself to the room. He kept his cowl down, his expression neutral. There was no need to make a spectacle for dead men.

Only a few of the patrons had yet to understand the danger, and even those too drunk to count their own toes had picked up on the change in atmosphere. Malik wasn't going to wait for them to catch their bearings. He swiveled to his left and buried his hidden blade into the neck of the doorman. Blood warmed his fingers and he pulled away before it could reach the gearing. Then right and two steps forward to reach the barman. His sword severed the man's shoulder, then retreated. A short man came sprinting towards the door, his head just high enough for Malik's elbow. The crunch of the man's nose sinking upwards into his skull seemed to drive a few of the other men out of their stupor. _Bold and stupid_, Malik thought, and cut down four men as they fumbled to defend themselves.

He caught the eye of one man, burly and on the verge of attacking. Malik could see it in the clenching of his jaw, the twitching in his fingers. Malik held his gaze as he buried his sword to the hilt in the man's stomach, pushing the blade and body away to impale another. The man's indecision had cost him, and Malik watched as this terrible truth dawned on his dying face. The man behind was clearly a merchant, who hadn't even thought to draw his own bejeweled weapon in all of the chaos. Malik, caught in the euphoria of his assured victory, abandoned his sword and reached instead for the sculpted pommel at the merchant's waist. The blade was in prime condition; no doubt it had never been used.

Malik pulled it free in time to strike at the man behind him, catching him in the arm, then at the neck. The cuts were deep but did not sever. _Heavier than I thought_. He tossed the spattered blade aside and reached for the daggers at his waist. Enough time had passed for even the drunkest of men to feel the base instinct to flee, and Malik buried three of his daggers before the first man could turn around. They fell over tables and chairs, dead before hitting the floor. Only a few remained after that, scrambling under the bodies of their dead fellows and huddled in the corners. Malik made short work of all but one, ignoring their words of protest and hasty prayers. He had been watching this gallery for three weeks; he knew exactly what each had done to deserve the Brotherhood's attention.

Malik crossed the room gingerly, stepping over corpses to retrieve his blade from its flesh-and-bone scabbard. He considered following the men who had fled; there were two of them and they were bound to talk, maybe not that night, but perhaps the next, or in a week's time. _Men with quick feet usually have even quicker mouths._ Malik wiped his freed steel against the black robes of a corpse and evened out his heartbeat. The silence in the room was deafening.

Or, it was, until the last of the crumpled lumps let out a shuddering gasp, twitching and huffing in unmistakable agony. Malik approached the figure and kicked it over. The barman, whom Malik had left with a fatal shoulder wound, had the yellowing teeth and baggy skin of an opium addict. He would die, but not immediately. _Weak and greedy_. Malik allowed the tip of his blade to puncture the man's lower abdomen, widening the gash until it split like a rotting orange. The man's hands grasped at the steel, fresh blood sliding out of his palms and onto the blade. "I am already dead, you miserable scum."

Malik lowered himself to a crouch and pulled back his hood. He sunk one finger into the gore of the man's wound. "No, there is life in you yet," He caught some intestine around his finger and tugged gently. "Speak now and I will see it end quickly." The man's choked cries had diminished to barely above a groan, but his eyes were still wide and alert.

"Tell me who brings in tomorrow's shipment."

"I don't know…"

"_Tell me!_ I know there are slaves arriving from the West."

"But those are just rumors-"

"Your friend Kouri has already confirmed that they will be taken here, to this gallery. And that you will receive them. _Who is the trader_." Malik buried his hand into the man's stomach, growing impatient.

"Please," the wretch managed, "I'll tell you what I know!"

Malik relaxed his grip.

"His name is Malik! He travels with a group of Frenchmen- I cannot tell you the name of their ship! Ah! Please! Please. That is all I know!"

"What harbor does he hail from?"

"Byblos!"

Malik cursed. "Byblos is two week's journey from here," he hissed. The man looked confused. "Ye-yes. Two weeks." Malik pulled his short dagger from its strap on his boot and slit the man's throat. He wiped it clean on the man's trousers and returned it to its rightful place before standing. _Two weeks! _He had already been away from Masyaf for over a month. He would need to find the nearest Bureau to restock for such a long journey. And perhaps send a letter to Masyaf explaining his delay.

XxXxX

**Masyaf - 2 months later**

The Christian encampment outside Masyaf had nearly tripled in size over the last three years. The wooden walls that had once been a mere symbolic show of force had been replaced with proper defences. Watchtowers and trenches had been added to the perimeter, as well as permanent guards at every entrance. Nailed to the wall facing Masyaf were the hands of several thieves; a deterrent that did little to endear them to their neighbours. Malik felt the cold twist of fate every time he saw another hand added to the row, remembering his own brush with the cleaver so many years ago.

The soldiers on duty paid Malik no attention as he walked past, and he entered the town with his cowl pulled back. Most of the other Brothers only felt comfortable showing their faces in the fortress, but Malik relished the freedom Masyaf offered. The sun warmed his cheeks and got between his short-cropped hair. He closed his eyes against it. Masyaf was, at the close of every mission, a brief interlude between the shadows of his work and the thick walls of the fortress.

"What an odd sight. A statue in the middle of the road."

Malik smirked, keeping his eyes closed. "How long have you been appreciating the view, Rauf?"

A laugh fell across the road. "Only a moment, though I'm sure if I'd said nothing you would still be here an hour from now."

Malik opened his eyes. "Perhaps."

"When did you return?"

"Only a moment ago."

"I thought you would be back before the snow melted."

"I encountered no problems, only detours."

Rauf nodded, satisfied. He leaned against the wall of the nearest home, looking to the horizon.

"Why are you here?" Malik asked.

Rauf smiled and pointed into the distance; to the staggered surface formed by Masyaf's cluttered rooftops. Malik spotted a small, white form bounding across the tiles, then another, and another. They were hopping from one roof to the next, jerking and swaying as only novices could.

"They've been at this for hours," Rauf said, sighing, "moving like foals."

"Where have you hidden the flags?"

"I haven't hidden any."

Malik raised an eyebrow. "Then why are they running out here?"

"A lesson in futility," Rauf replied airily.

"You're worse than Labib!"

"Certainly not. Labib would have withheld the flags on purpose."

"And you did not?"

Rauf shrugged, grinning. "I realized, Brother, after sending them out onto the rooftops this morning, that I'd quite forgotten to place any flags last night."

Malik groaned.

"You are lucky to be arriving today," Rauf said, sobering, "and not tomorrow. Al Mualim just gave your brother his orders for the year."

Malik pulled his hood back over his head. "So long? I thought he would be sent to Acre, and no further."

"Much further. Darum."

Darum was twice the distance from Masyaf as Acre. His brother would need a ship to get there and back in only a year.

"By sea?"

"Yes."

Malik grit his teeth. He was not so afraid of the open water as Altaïr, but there were risks taken at sea that no amount of preparedness could protect against. Malik looked back out across the roofs, the bumbling novices still searching for something that wasn't there.

One of the novices landed on a loose tile and didn't correct his posture to accommodate. The tile slid out from beneath him and he disappeared onto the road below. The snap of a broken bone echoed through the streets, followed by a sharp cry of pain. Rauf raised his left arm to the window above him, pulling himself smoothly up onto the roof and setting off towards his charge.

Malik turned away and began his ascent up the mountain in the opposite direction, knowing that he would have time to speak freely with Rauf later. He had more pressing matters to attend to in the fortress.

XxXxX

Malik lay on his back, eyes on the ceiling. His brother had not been in his chambers or in the library, and none of the other Brothers he'd met along the way had seen him. Malik had a sneaking suspicion that Kadar was in Masyaf, lying in a similar position on a bed that wasn't his own. Malik could not fault his brother for seeking comfort before a long mission, though he wished he knew more of the details.

Altaïr shifted and rolled on top of him. The bare skin of nearly every limb pressed firmly into Malik's own. There were certain ways in which a body molds to another; a shape that cannot be replicated. Malik had thought about this during his three months away; the longest he'd ever been separated from Altaïr since their meeting ten years ago. Since then their bodies had changed, legs lengthened, hair grew, voices deepened. So many changes in just the three years since their promotion to Assassins. Altaïr's hand spread slowly over Malik's ribs, his thumb rubbing the skin over each bone. Their bodies had changed, but it was always the other who discovered these differences first. Altaïr's hand rose along Malik's side, eliciting a deep sigh. The thumb, that was the catalyst, snuck towards the nearest nipple, rubbing it gently. Like the pulse point on a target, the effect of such precision was immediate, and practiced. Altaïr had known about this weakness, had stumbled across it and exploited it mercilessly, without Malik's guidance. His body's changes betrayed him. His sigh became a moan.

"Three months," Altaïr said, voice thick.

"I know."

"Later than you said." The thumb's circular motion paused, changing direction.

"I know."

They were lying under a thin sheet, on the bed in the South Tower. Very little of the room had changed since they began using it in their boyhood. Only a drape had been added to the window, during a particularly cold winter.

"I was going to leave. If I was meant to wait even one more day. I would have taken one of the Journeymen horses and ridden out to Tripoli."

"That would have been unfortunate, as I was not in Tripoli for long."

Altaïr lowered his head to Malik's neck, allowing the top of his nose to brush against a particular freckle before biting down. The response was immediate; another spot Malik had been unaware of until Altaïr uncovered its existence, and potential.

"I would have ridden the horse to Tripoli, and to Jerusalem, and all the way to the great open water if such a need arose."

"You would be a fairly poor assassin to go so far awry- ah."

"In my madness," Altaïr breathed, directly below Malik's ear, "I would not be an Assassin."

Altaïr rocked his hips. Slowly, deliberately. Malik groaned, and Altaïr continued, his voice hushed.

"Simply a man."

Malik gripped Altaïr's arm, shocked at the force of his body's response. Three months without any release, and he could feel the power it had over his mind. Altaïr smiled against his skin, always aware.

XxXxX

Malik threw off the sheet in a huff. The room was stifling, even with only two people sharing the space. Altaïr yawned and blinked up at him, but didn't rise. He had kicked off most of his sheets during the night, leaving most of the remainder on Malik's side. The sight of him, lying there naked, would have been more enticing if Malik wasn't sticky with his own sweat.

Malik left the bed and walked to the window. The drape had been loosened over the small square opening, and he pulled it aside to inspect the outside world.

Down below, in the sun-drenched courtyard, Rauf was frog-marching his novices in a small circle, each boy carrying two pails of water. Malik recognized the activity, and almost laughed at the irony. Rauf had been the worst at that exercise, always spilling his water and complaining about the heat.

Malik turned at the sound of movement behind him, and watched as Altaïr shuffled quietly towards the cabinet in the corner, its wooded panels cut with gold bindings that wound around the exterior in elegant swirling patterns. Malik wondered how such a beautiful piece of carpentry could end up in such a dusty old room, but then Altaïr bent over to open one of the drawers, and all thoughts of furnishings vanished from his mind.

"Look what I found," Altaïr called.

The drawer lay open at an odd angle, the wooden frame had warped over time and the two pieces no longer fit together neatly. Altaïr pulled something gingerly out from inside. It looked to Malik like an old wooden box, until Altaïr blew the dust off the top to reveal a handsome checkered pattern.

"I used to play this with Adha," he said wistfully. "Come, I will show you how it goes."

Malik climbed back on the bed and Altaïr placed the box between them. He opened it and carefully removed a set of black and white carved pieces. Malik picked up an elephant piece and inspected it. The details were exceptional; every toe, every wrinkle, even the beast's expression had been carefully cut into the wood.

"Who made these?"

Altaïr shrugged, taking the piece from Malik's fingers and placing it on the board with the rest. "The Master who lived in these quarters I suppose. Or someone else. It matters little now that its here."

"They must have taken a long time to carve."

"Yes, I imagine so."

Malik listened patiently as Altaïr explained the game. It had simple enough rules, though there were a few that sounded out of place, as though a child had written exceptions to rules they didn't like. Altaïr, in an act of pure selflessness, allowed Malik the first move.

XxXxX

**A/N: Another time-skip! Rather serendipitous given the break in updates, though not planned. I have the outline of this story already written out (since the very beginning), and I'm so glad now to be in this time period, where I can start wrapping up some of the loose ends. Thanks to all who sent notes regarding my last chapter. Your support is much appreciated! For you new readers, welcome, I hope you've enjoyed it so far :)**

**Reviews:**

**Mykonosparadise: **I'm glad you're still reading! As for their PDA, it certainly is a problem… Too bad they will have to learn discretion the hard way :( Thanks for yours review! **Cookie Killer****: **Hello! Thanks for your review. Firstly, I'm not sure where you read that Richard the Lionheart is dead in my fic; he plays a key role in later chapters and in the original AC cannon. Rest assured I take the historical accuracy of such figures seriously when writing. Secondly, though I'm sure in reality that men and women were not treated equally in the 12th century, the AC cannon makes it very clear that both Altair's parents were assassins, and that Altair's first lover was a female assassin in Masyaf. Neither of these women are OCs. The only aspect of Adha's character that I've changed is the nature of her relationship with Altaïr. If you'd like further information, there's plenty to be found on the AC wiki. Cheers! **Rueky Mitem: **Thanks for your review! I do stay as close to the cannon as possible, but you're right, some minor changes are necessary to keep the story interesting. I try to keep it to minor stuff! :)


End file.
